


The Best One Is the Last One

by Ajayd



Series: A Spider in the Pool [4]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Mental States, But it's Deadpool, Erotica, Feels, Fluff and Smut, Getting Back Together, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Past Relationship(s), Power Dynamics, Relationship Negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-08-31 00:10:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8555083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ajayd/pseuds/Ajayd
Summary: After a messy breakup and months apart, Deadpool and Spideman get another chance at happiness. It might be meant to be, but even fate can use a little help from the Avengers. COMPLETE AND POSTED. Not necessary to read earlier installments if you don't mind not knowing how everyone got so friendly.





	1. Chapter 1

Deadpool’s conversation with Headshrinker Wakka had gone surprisingly well. He’d been able to discuss an “exit plan” with her cuz he was profoundly interested in that topic, while the doctor kept her expectations real and her strategies practical. He was going to wear his leathers in order to feel safe, and if necessary talk to himself to organize his thoughts. These were compromises, concessions required to manage his mental illness and respect his priorities, which were fundamentally to not mindlessly kill himself or others. Instead Deadpool planned to find worthwhile ways to channel his adrenaline and violent urges, such as challenging feats of endurance, extreme sports, and dying/killing for righteous causes [[only]]. He’d keep on the move, to stay under the radar but also to maintain a state of activity that best suited to his mental health. This was a plan that played to Deadpool’s strengths, and he liked it as much as he could given the unhappy circumstances. 

The first thing Deadpool did after leaving Peter and Stark Tower was run for as far as he could, for as long as he could. At first, fueled by his own broken heart, it felt like he was evading capture, or maybe chasing freedom, and it was both thrilling and completely manic. His first stop was Tokyo, where he took a train out to the Kegon Falls, a historical jumping spot for spurned lovers. Then, mostly to spite the shrink on principle, but also for the self-satisfaction of the symbolism, Wade stripped down and threw himself naked over the precipice. He squeezed his eyes closed tight as his body hit the rocks and broke apart, his favorite memory of Peter’s adoring expression filling his mind. The shattering pain of his death felt divinely right, like a storm-wrought wave breaking on the warm shore of his reincarnation.

After he’d gotten that little melodrama out of his system, his new same-old-body found it a lot easier to follow the plan. 

[♪♬ I spent a lot of nights on the run. And oh I think, like I’m lost and can’t be found. I’m just waiting for my day to come. ♪♬]

He traveled to Seoul, Mumbai, Hanoi. He didn’t take any jobs, but easily kept himself afloat by robbing the reigning criminals of each city. He had to knock out a couple of people, a couple of times, but usually he could clear the targets out without being seen. Then there was Brisbane, where he tried not to let all the young brunettes remind him of Peter; then Santiago, where he bought a used motorcycle, and drove off into the mountains. He taught himself to free climb and fly in a wingsuit; and if he died a couple times, well, that was to be expected of such activities. Next up was San Paolo, where he was solicited by a girl; Deadpool had no patience for child traffickers, and so broke the killing guideline by taking out an entire crime family, heartlessly and systematically. 

He received an emailed warning from Stark after that one. ((Big Brother is still watching.))

Of course he was. There was only so far under the radar that someone like Pool could be. He’d switched to black on black leathers to be less recognizable, but a man in a mask will always be conspicuous. So he stowed away on a rusty old freighter bound for a continent less wired for sound. The long days and nights of isolation, either spent hiding or sneaking about the boat, were a good warm up for the next leg of journey. In Dakar, Senegal, he traded in his hot leathers for tan army fatigues, though he kept his breathable Spandex mask. Then he haggled for a cheap Jeep and took off across the Sahara with his katanas, a couple canisters of fuel, and a bunch of food that either got eaten or went bad within a few days. The old Jeep died a couple days after that, and then Pool was confronted with his unique brand of dilemma.

[[Only a jackass is arrogant enough to try crossing the Sahara on foot. Obviously impossible.]]

[For a mortal perhaps. We could do it, not even an issue.]

[[Mmm. . . Shockingly good point. . . I doubt you could handle it though. All that commitment and dedication, you know.]]

[Are you calling me chicken? ARE YOU TALKING TO MEHHH?!]

Never one to back down from a challenge, Deadpool took off at a well-paced and sustainable jog. While his mask and fatigues protected his scarred skin from sunburn, the heat combined with prolonged dehydration and starvation to create its own ring of hell; and yet the ongoing intentionality of the experience made it a cleansing kind of suffering. This was a conscious choice: the monotony, the forced asceticism, and the focus on survival, it all helped quiet his mind. Sometimes hours would pass without a single word from the boxes, and it was a soothing revelation that this was even possible. Learning at the feet of Forest Gump, he came to accept that Shit Happens, and that this wisdom could be applied equally to his breakup with Peter as to his abusive childhood, his horrific transformation, and his brutal torture at the hands of Dr. Killbrew. 

[♪♬ And I think, oh I don’t want to let you down. Cuz something inside has changed, and maybe we don’t want to stay the same. . . ♪♬]

Somewhere in Chad, under the dark of night, he raided a camp while in a state of delirium, taking only a camel that he named Humpty-Dumpty. He didn’t so much ride her as spew verbal diarrhea all over his hapless audience, confessing his tragic life story in gory detail, and taking comfort from her stoic companionship. After a fortnight, he finally came to the end of his protracted tale of sorrow, so he took the opportunity to set her free near an oasis. He’d taken to sleeping curled next to his companion, and if they traveled together any longer, he was afraid he’d find himself humping a camel. 

[Hahaha! Get it?!] 

When he finally dragged his emaciated, ragged, and filthy body out of the desert six weeks later, the police in Kharatoum tried to arrest him. In no state for a sustained struggle, Deadpool let them kill him, then later snuck out of the morgue. The entire experience was clean and practical, and that too was a revelation: that death could be simple, strategic, and genuinely detached from emotional trauma. 

[[This is what we make of it. Play to our strengths.]]

In a glaring red flag to Stark, Deadpool had to access his Cayman Islands account to procure a comfy place to recover in Nairobi, no questions asked. Once allowed plentiful food and rest, he regained his full strength within a few days and then decided he was up for a bigger challenge. So he took a bus to Mogadishu, where, disguised with a burqa and a stolen ID, he caught a plane to Medina. From there he traveled north in a series of stolen vehicles, before finally crossing over into Syria on foot, in the dead of night. ISIS was about to have a bad week. 

[♪♬ I got guns in my head and they won’t go, spirits in my head and they won’t go. But the gun still rattles, the gun still rattles, oh. . . ♪♬]

It took Deadpool five days to shoot, blow, and hack his way to Aleppo. Two days after that, he was confronted by an acquaintance, apparently now undercover for Mossad as a rebel. The message conveyed was that he had dealt ISIS a crippling blow, and that it was time to disappear, so that the United States military complex coul spend billions of dollar and President Trump could take the credit. Deadpool left the exchange a cool 10 mil richer, plus a visa to Berlin. 

[Finally! Back in business!]

In Berlin he had a couple leather combat suits made for himself, one all black and one black on red. While he waited for his custom orders to be completed, he wandered around the city with no idea how to spend his money or occupy himself in a healthy way. His second night there, he paid a hot young thing to suck his dick in the alley; he pretended that talented tongue was Peter’s, and that he hadn’t had to pay extra for being a terrifying and disgusting creep. The encounter only made him feel Peter’s loss more, so he swore not to repeat the experience. 

The next day he took a train to Krakow. There he was shot in the head while breaking into a giant safe at the drug don’s ridiculously fortified mansion; later he woke up, shrieking in agony as his body was incinerated. A slow torturous regeneration was followed by the terrifying discovery that he was trapped in the incinerator, cramped, suffocating, and burning. In the hours that followed Wade died several times, only to wake again, in horrific physical pain and mentally fraying further with each resurrection. When the incinerator door finally opened, he shot out in a frenzy and immediately broke his unwitting savior’s neck. 

Wade stole the dead man’s clothes, guns, and money, then made his way brutally through the compound. He fought dirty and ugly, slaughtering anyone between him and escape, and then he was running, running, but not as far or fast as he usually could. His body was exhausted and hurting from his rapid series of full regenerations: his bones ached, and his skin bled, and his stomach was scraped raw with starvation.

[♪♬ And I don’t want a never ending life, I just want to be alive while I’m here. And I don’t want to see another night, lost inside a lonely life while I’m here. ♪♬] 

Wade snuck back into his cheap hotel to avoid the staff, where he ordered a rude amount of delivery, but otherwise petulantly neglected himself for days. He was tired of running and he missed the life he he’d built for himself at Peter’s side: Chimichangas and Rosa’s delightfully mixed-up pizza, loud American music and rude New York City attitudes; even the ridiculous Avengers and all their stupid drama. He missed Aunt May and Clint and Ellie, and most of all Peter, though he was currently trying to Jedi mindtrick himself into not thinking about his ex. Ever. He’d accidently caught Spiderman on the telly a few times, and couldn’t turn away. The webslinger appeared as strong and fast as ever, protecting New York from petty predators and international villains alike. Pool was happy for him. 

[[In that twisted, self-flagellating way. Of course.]] 

So Peter got to be Spiderman and Wade had been muzzled. The thought didn’t leave him angry as much as profoundly unsatisfied. He felt more in charge of his mental health than he ever had since Weapon X: he hadn’t deliberately suicided once since Japan, he wasn’t struggling [much] with homicidal tendencies, and he was managing his various psychotic symptoms with [[moderate]] success. But he was still unhappy, and the less hectic his internal life became, the more he noticed the sphere of absence that surrounded him like a magic barrier. 

He’d missed Halloween with Ellie, Thanksgiving with Aunt May, Christmas with Peter, as well as what would’ve been their one year anniversary; maybe even Call of Duty championships with Clint, and Sam, and Bucky. All those months on the move, through the lonely struggles and the painful coping, Yellow had developed an intimate mastery of Sims mode. Most other times, Wade was allowed to feel the profound loneliness and loss of his life, even allowed to cry about it on occasion, but Yellow always flipped the switch if the great chasm of feelings got too dangerous. Special days in particular were spent in a patchwork of mourning and disconnected game play.

“I don’t wanna feel like this anymore, why haven’t you flipped us?” Pool challenged, staring morosely at the ceiling. He was laying bonelessly on a hotel bed in Krakow, wearing a ski mask and sweats in place of his incinerated battle suit. 

[[Cuz we got this. The incinerator experience was gnarly, no denying it, but we’ve done this before and we’ll do it again. This is what dealing better looks like.]]

[Who wants to just “deal” for the rest of an immortal life? Shoot me now.]

“And what about the soul-sucking loneliness? Am I just supposed to deal with that too? Settle for two boxes for the rest of eternity?” 

In a concession to that aching solitude, Deadpool had continued to talk to himself while alone, not out of stress so much as a conscious effort to maintain his sanity. The boxes generally blabbed on regardless, and talking back made him feel marginally better. So, as long he was able to control himself, he was going to use the self-talk to ease his psychological tensions. Too bad it was only a stopgap for the persistent fucking loneliness. 

[[Or, you know, we could actually DO something about it.]]

[Yes, yes, YES! Let’s find another desperate hooker that looks remotely like Peter!]

“No!” [[NO! We’re not thinking about him!]]

Yellow had a point though. If Wade missed home so much, maybe he should go back “home”. It didn’t matter if he only had a weak grasp of the concept, he had enough understanding to head in the right direction. He literally jumped out of bed and bolted into action. That afternoon he took a train to Warsaw, where he flew out under his actual identity, and landed in an equally frozen Toronto, back in North America for the first time in five months.

“‘Wendy! I’m home!’” Pool cackled to himself as he disembarked from 747, trying to restrain his excitement. 

[Love that movie! We’re basically Jack Nicholson in the Shining, if Kubrick had wanted to make a real horror movie where Jack couldn’t die.]

[[Shut up. We’re in an airport, which means keep our shit together before we get detained.]]

The boxes were quiet for a couple minutes so that Deadpool could get through passport control without getting shot. Trying to fly in wearing the full cover burka would’ve been entertaining, but he was trying to lay low. He took off his hood for the officer, whose eyes went from suspicious to horrified. 

[♪♬ They call you Mr. Personality, cuz you so ugly! I heard that when you were born, the doctor slapped yo mamma. Oooh, that’s ugly. ♪♬]

The poor flustered woman rushed him through after that, and Wade twisted himself to look as hideous and deformed as possible. He hunched his body and limped, squinted one eye while bulging the other, and drooled strategically.

[Wait, wait! ♪♬ You asked my grandma if she needed help with her bags. I’ve never seen an old lady run so fast! Oooh, man, that’s ugly! ♪♬]

[[Heh-cough, heh-cough. I’m not laughing, that’s not funny. We are NOT in a good mood.]]

[Fuck off! You enjoy tormenting airport personnel as much as I do! Something we can all agree on!]

Indeed. It was very satisfying to stroll out of the airport into the February afternoon. Subzero temperatures, check; grey skies, check; friendly Canadians staring at him while castigating themselves, check! He wrapped his thick, hooded parka around him and, frankly, looked less suspicious than he did in his battle costume. The flight had left him restless, so he checked in at a Best Western and went for a brisk march through snow-logged Toronto. He bought a burner phone, some groceries, and a cactus, and then headed back to the hotel. A couple blocks away, he received a text message on his new phone.

((Still watching))

Deadpool didn’t recognize the number, but he could guess. ((Fuck off Stark. Not gonna shit in my own back yard))

It was both a promise and a claim, to which Stark didn’t respond, and that was fine by him. A couple weeks later, by which time he’d leased a crummy apartment on Toronto’s dodgy East side, a box of his personal junk arrived, including his intricately carved pool-stick spear, some old clothes and cutlery, and his trusty collection of sex toys. As a man who owned incredibly little, and wanted even less, the gesture touched him surprisingly hard. By establishing a real base here, and making a space for himself; by filling it with a cactus and a telly and some other shit, he was in fact gathering himself. Stark’s assistance, whether intentional or not, felt like a recognition of his efforts.

[So. Turns out Iron Man is only a douche seventy percent of the time. The other thirty percent of the time is spent successfully making up for all the douchery. How does the lucky bastard do it?]

((Thanx metal head))

! *_* !

Deadpool hadn’t seen Ellie in almost a year, so he made a point to come for a visit on her birthday. He considered the NYC metropolitan area Off Limits these days, but this was an extenuating circumstance. He took great efforts to avoid Spiderman and the Avengers, for all that Marvel Universe Rules allowed for that possibility. 

He arranged with Agent Preston to take her ice skating in Central Park. If he looked ridiculous in his full battle suit and skates, he made up for it by having all the skills of a redneck Canadian on steroids. Young Wade, in Buttfuck, Canada, had played a lot of ice hockey, and it showed in the way Deadpool tore around the ice rink, pulling Ellie behind him as he weaved around the wary crowd. She screamed with laughter, and her face had lit up with joy and excitement, which Deadpool studied closer than the crowded trajectory he was supposedly navigating. After a few close calls and couple warnings, they were told bluntly to leave. It didn’t matter though, because Ellie was looking at him with that same adoration that he used to see in Peter’s face, and he walked out of that place a King. 

Though perhaps he should’ve been smart enough to avoid Central Park. When random shit goes down in NYC, as it frequently does, Central Park is one of a handful of paranormal hubs (Stark Tower and the Baxter Building being two others). Add in a trouble magnet like Deadpool, and fate virtually guaranteed a supernatural shit storm at that specific time and place. Indeed, just as they were leaving, the staff abruptly announced the rink’s emergency closure. Due to security threats in the area, everyone was instructed to leave the Park and go home. Seconds later, the crowd was treated to the sight of Iron Man blazing across the sky.

“Wow, Dad, look! Iron Man!” Ellie squealed.

[Hell, Yeee-ah! IT’S PARTY TIME!!!] 

[[Wait! What about Ellie?! She can’t come with!]]

Deadpool frowned under his mask, defying orders and pulling Ellie into the woods. “Ellie, I’ll protect you, I swear, but you need to do as I say. Okay?”

Deadpool stopped at the base of an evergreen tree with a somewhat low hanging branch, asking again, “Okay?”

Ellie looked nervous, but nodded. “I’m gonna help you into this tree and you’re gonna hide there. Don’t make any noise, and don’t come down, no matter what happens. Understand?”

“Yes,” Ellie replied quietly as Deadpool kneeled and helped her onto his shoulders. When he stood, she was able to climb into the bow of the tree. 

“Remember what my superhero power is?” Pool whispered urgently, relieved that his daughter’s face appeared relatively inconspicuous amidst the pine needles.

“Yes.” 

She looked and sounded scared, but Pool had to make her understand in the scarce moments they had. “Don’t come down, no matter what you see. I’ll be alright, however bad it looks.”

That was all he could do, so he turned to the situation at hand. Being no civilian, Deadpool knew that his safest bet was to eliminate the threat. Running only ever repositioned the threat at your back. 

[♪♬ Real gangsta ass niggas don’t run for shit, cuz real gangsta ass niggas don’t run fast. . . Damn it feels good to be a gangsta! ♪♬]

He cursed himself for not bringing his weapons, though that had been one of Agent Preston’s conditions, and glanced around for something suitable. Unfortunately, a park is a crap place to find weapons, so Deadpool settled for an abandoned set of ice skates and hoped that close combat was an appropriate response to the menace.

Mere seconds later a gargantuan dinosaur – [[That’s a goddamn Tee Rex, motherfuckers!]] – came stomping through a wooded enclave. The screaming started immediately, as the stragglers now ran for their lives. The prehistoric predator came to a stop on the walkway intersection, bellowing Jurassic Park style, and Deadpool didn’t even have to think about it. He sprinted towards the monster as fast as he could, a skate in each pistoning hand, reaching the giant lizard before it had even reacted to his presence. Pool used the skates like picks, quickly stabbing and scaling the beast as it thrashed and clawed at him. He managed to scramble behind Sexy Rexy’s head, tightly straddling the large skull as he raised the skates high, only to bring them down sharply, impaling the dinosaur’s eyes straight through to its brain. The T. Rex staggered, and then collapsed heavily, Deadpool jumping free just as its giant carcass smacked loudly to the ground. 

[♪♬ Another one bites the dust! Another one gone, and another one gone, another one bites the dust! ♪♬]

Deadpool’s eyes shot into the conifers, confirming Ellie’s safety before registering a loud, carrying voice, “That was a truly impressive display, ally Deadpool. Truly the fastest I have seen such a beast brought down in close combat.”

Pool pivoted behind him to see that Thor had landed near the giant fallen beast, only to start inspecting it like a trophy. Deadpool barely had a moment to take in the Fabio-alien before his buddies started arriving – Black Widow ran into the clearing just seconds before Falcon flew in and hovered above them. Then, in a final indignity, Spiderman swung down from a tree and jogged stiffly into the clearing. 

[[PEEETERRR!!!]] [Spidey!]

“Don’t shoot! I’m not black!” Pool cried, dramatically flinging the bloody skates through the air as he reached for the sky, hopefully diverting attention from his sideways drift away from a specific tree.

“Deadpool,” Black Widow challenged, stalking closer and looking irritated. “This cannot be a coincidence.”

“But it is! I’m not responsible for the damn dino, I just fucking killed one!” Pool would totally turn this into a hissy fit if it kept their attention in his direction, though he slipped into a casual fighting stance just in case. “Give me a break, Widow. I’m just passing through, be out of your hair by this evening.” 

The Widow stopped, right out of striking distance, eyes calculating. “Wrong answer. I want to know why you’re in Central Park.” 

“Just ice skating, honest. Swear on my dead everybody’s grave.” Deadpool couldn’t help it, he glanced at Spiderman again. He was standing back, yet also clearly watching their exchange. He looked strong and perfect in a snug Spandex costume that left little to the imagination, and Pool felt an awful chasm of yearning open up in his chest. How could it feel as fresh and painful as the day it ended?

“That’s pretty hard to believe,” she challenged skeptically.

[I can be pretty unbelievable.]

“It’s true, we were skating!” came a pouty tweenage shout. Seized by panic, Pool spun around in time to see Ellie stomping self-righteously out of the wooded area and straight into the confrontation. “My Dad just saved everyone from a T-Rex! Why y’all standing around giving him grief? Ain’t there some, like, dinosaurs to round up or something?”

[Uhhh. . . she totally reminds me of someone.]

[[Oh. Em. Gee. I totally have a mini-me.]]

Thor joined the conversation at the same time, appearing next to Deadpool and clapping his shoulder with a body-jarring blow. “I agree with the child-warrior, and I applaud your bravery, Deadpool. This vicious creature has a particularly strong jaw, I encourage you to take one of its mighty teeth for your collection.” 

“Why, THANK YOU,” Pool enthused melodramatically. “I don’t collect teeth, but it is nice to be appreciated.”

“Wait,” Falcon demanded, landing next to Black Widow and trotting closer. “Since when do you have a daughter?”

“Since she was born, duh,” Pool snapped back, unwilling to permit any interest in Ellie. She’d come to stand beside her Dad, only for him to position himself in front of her like a human shield. Later she’d be getting the mother of all lectures regarding safety, complete with all the horrible, gory ways that she could die.

“Does this mean you actually were ice skating?” Falcon needled, smirking widely. “I would’ve paid to see that! Deadpool on skates! Like Disney on ice!”

[Laugh it up, Dodo Number 2. I’m gonna sabotage your wings while you sleep.]

“I bet it was spectacular,” Spidey asserted demurely, cautiously joining the group. 

“It was spectacular!” Ellie shouted from behind Pool’s back, pull on his shoulder for leverage while apparently jumping up and down. “Don’t you know all Canadians can ice skate?! I’m half Canadian!”

[Okay, so that’s adorable.]

Except that Spiderman had continued his approach, slinking closer until he was within arm’s reach, then even closer, and Pool braced for –

“Hi. I’m Spiderman.” The little fucker was reaching past him to offer a hand to Ellie, and Deadpool had to check the urge to chew Spidey’s trespassing arm right off. He glared so hard it had to be visible even through the leather mask. 

His daughter slowly held out her own slender arm and the younger man took it in his. “I’m Ellie. I’m not really from Canada, I’m from Queens. So I know who you are. Everyone loves Spiderman.” 

[[I love you, Peter.]]

“[I think I’m gonna vomit],” Deadpool blurted loudly, only to feel like a real asshole when Spidey shrunk back at his words. He’d clearly let talking to himself go too far if Whitey was getting through unfiltered. He turned in shame and tried to pull Ellie away, but the tween wasn’t having it.

“Wait!” Ellie whined with an immature stamp of her foot. “You told me that you were friends with Spiderman!” 

Deadpool froze at those damning words, waiting inexplicably to be struck by lightening. 

[If by “friends” you mean: tirelessly defiled his flexible young body in every way imaginable.]

“On that note. . . I’ve got places to go, dinosaurs to slay,” Falcon interrupted, promptly launching into the air. 

As he turned back to face Peter, Pool noted that Widow was also pulling Thor away. Ellie was looking between him and Spiderman as if she could see what even he couldn’t understand. 

“We’re still friends, aren’t we?” Spiderman offered magnanimously, looking at Deadpool though the words were obviously for Ellie’s benefit.

Ashamed of his own initial reaction, Deadpool now nodded manically, jittering with an energy that for once had trouble forming words. “Friends! Right. Of course. Definitely. Friends. Hahaha!”

[[That sounded completely psycho. So much for months of so-called progress.]]

Deadpool took a hold of Ellie’s shoulders and quickly led/pushed her away. “We gotta get you back home before the Pteranodons get here. Now THOSE THINGS are mean! You should look into some sorta portal to the Savage Land. That’s where I’d place my money. See yuh, Spidey!”

He power walked his daughter a few blocks to the subway, then they took a couple trains to get her home. In the desert he’d drawn out his tale to Humpty-Dumpty for two weeks,, but forty minutes was plenty of time to gloss over the main ups and downs of his complicated relationship with Spiderman. As they neared Agent Preston’s brownstone, Ellie summed it up easily as, “So he used to be your boyfriend, and maybe you still love each other. Why don’t you get back together then?”

Deadpool slapped himself on the forehead. “Did you miss the part about all the pain and suffering?”

Ellie paused on the stoop, turning to her Dad. “Didn’t sound too bad to me. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, amirte?” 

“You must be a chip off the old block, girlie,” Pool returned affectionately. “Cuz that’s basically my theme song. Ask anyone.” 

“Thanks for coming, Dad,” Ellie said with a sudden, unexpected maturity. “I know this isn’t your scene.”

Deadpool smiled widely. “You make me wish it was. You’re pretty fucking amazing, and today was a riot!” 

If he wasn’t so painfully aware of his own limitations, he’d be greatly tempted to take on a ballsy, precocious daughter. It’d fill his very primal desire for family, and to be needed. If only he could’ve provided her with half the life she deserved; if only his very existence didn’t put her in danger. 

So they hugged it out and Deadpool took the next plane back to Toronto. He made a point of staying away from the entire Tri-state area for a while and tidied up his efforts to stay under the radar (insofar as that is possible in a recognizable black and red mask). He was not on speaking terms with Fury at the moment, but he might have to change that if he was going to stay in North America for the indefinite future. There was a significant lack of righteous work for a flashy assassin would didn’t want to make a splash.

Almost three weeks after Ellie’s birthday, Deadpool received a text he couldn’t ignore. ((Get to nyc stat. Calling in ALL favors u owe me))

There were not a lot of people to which Pool owed favors, only one man that came to mind. ((That u pigeon-guy?))

((Need ur help, poolboy))

Deadpool scowled at his screen. He was reluctant to go back to the City, and even more reluctant to rub elbows with the Avengers. Seeing Peter had left him off-balance for days, and he didn’t want to risk what meager mental stability he’d cultivated these last months. It was persons, places, things, and all that addiction blah blah. On the other hand, he did owe Barton several significant favors, including his assistance in saving Spidey from Doctor Octopus. And Pool really didn’t want the man bringing up the nightmare with the turkey baster. 

[[We owe him big time. He was almost a friend, and we don’t have any of those.]]

[Sounds like a PART-TAY to me!!!]

“Grrr!” Deadpool growled at Yellow, shadowboxing with air for a moment as he vented his frustration over his sometimes ally siding with Barton over their own mental health. It was two boxes against one primary personality, and Deadpool recognized defeat when he saw it. So he packed a bag and took a train back to the Big Apple, even more anxious than before, because now they knew he was coming. As per Hawkeye’s directions, he met the other man on the top of an apartment building near Empire U’s main campus. The archer must’ve tracked Pool’s approach because he didn’t move from his position as Deadpool approached loudly from behind.

“So whatcha lookin’ at?” Deadpool sing-songed as he stretched out next to Hawkeye, who was laying on the roof and peering off the edge with a pair of binoculars. 

Without looking away from his target, Barton offered up another set of binoculars, so Pool took a moment to observe the Starbucks across the street. Boring, boring, hot chick in a short skirt, more boring –

[[Petey-pie!]] 

“What the fuck?!” Pool exclaimed as he scrambled away from the edge of roof, confusion and shock warring with the sudden onset anxiety. A beat later he realized that, of course, it was a set up.

[I’mma tear your arms off, deep fry them in boiling grease, smoother them in hot sauce, and EAT ME SOME GODDAMN CHICKEN WINGS!]

Hawkeye turned towards him, but that was all he had time before Deadpool dived on him in a flurry of messy fists and knees. “You mangy vulture! You think this is funny?! You like messing with the fucking sad clown at the circus?! I’ll show you a sad motherfucking clown!”

“No! Stop! Jesus Christ!” Hawkeye basically curled into a ball and covered his head, which only worked as a defensive strategy because Pool was channeling his inner teenage girl – basically sitting on the other man and slapping him haphazardly aside the head. “Just stop for a minute and listen to me!”

Pool slowed his attack until Hawkeye was able to push him off, and then they were both sitting on the roof, eying each other warily. “Speak fast,” Deadpool demanded bitchily. “And it better be good.”

Hawkeye raised his hands in appeasement, but otherwise did not seem overly concerned about the situation. “Just hear me out, okay? I’m not laughing at you, Wade, I wouldn’t do that. We’re sorta friends, right?”

[[Call the Pope, it’s a goddamn miracle. We could have ONE “sorta” friend. Maybe.]]

It took Deadpool a long, frustrating handful of seconds to realize that he had no idea how to answer the archer. “Is that supposed to be a trick question?”

Hawkeye’s mouth took a dismayed downturn, but when he spoke his voice was confident and reassuring. “No, it’s not a trick question. We’re friends, okay? Which is why I’m coming to you with this. Cuz I TRUST that you’re the right person to handle it.”

[It’s a trap! Throw him off the roof!]

Deadpool’s eyes just narrowed suspiciously as he studied Hawkeye’s partially concealed face, though to no avail. He’d withhold his judgment on their supposed friendship until the shit show had fully unfolded. After a beat he spun on his butt and crawled closer to the side of the roof, demanding snarkily, “And what exactly is “this”, pray tell?” 

Hawkeye scooted closer until once again they were laying on their bellies, shoulders almost touching as they watched over the side of the building. “Now I don’t have a lot of evidence, cuz Peter’s basically been in hiding. But I’m worried that he’s still not himself.” 

Deadpool’s entire body tensed at the suggestion. He immediately adjusted the binoculars and looked again, picking Peter easily out of crowd and studying him closely – as though he’d be able to recognize Peter’s possession any better than the first time. He was just sitting at the table, sipping some latte crap and frowning adorably at his laptop. Surely a supervillian like Doctor Octopus couldn’t pout his lip so plumply, or slant his sharp eyebrows so expressively. . .

[We should ask him if he wants to fuck. See what happens. That’d give us an answer.]

[[Jackass! Absolute shit for brains, even before all the brain damage!]]

“I don’t think I’m the best person for this job,” Deadpool muttered, stomach cramping and mood souring with bad memories.

[Wait –] 

[[What?!]]

“Dude. You haven’t even heard the details,” Hawkeye scolded with a very bro-ish shoulder bump. “I just want you to tail him for five days, that’s all. Then give me your opinion. Whatever you might think, you still know him better than anyone.” 

Deadpool couldn’t look at Peter and block out the boxes at the same time, so he ducked his head and tried to think clearly. He didn’t want to watch Peter moving on without him; but however small the risk, he couldn’t ignore the possibility that Octavius could still exist somewhere within Peter. “What am I supposed to do if shit goes down?”

“Gee, I guess you save his life,” Hawkeye replied snottily, still looking though his binoculars. “But it won’t come to that. Spidey’s got his routine down pretty cold.” 

[Shit always goes down when we’re around.]

Deadpool raised his eyes again, to spy Peter in the distance. Since their last encounter, he had found it harder not to think about the younger man, and the demise of their relationship had become the tender kind of pain that he liked to press on. He still wanted Peter, still fantasized about him in moments of weakness, and still ached at the loss of the most intimate relationship of his life. Watching him this way was captivating in what had to be a really unhealthy way. 

[I want I want I want.]

[[What if our supposed friend is actually trying to drive us crazy? Ever thought about that?]] 

[Who gives a fuck? I still want.]

“Fine. But only three days. And this makes us even.”

[[Hardly.]]

! ~_~ !

Hawkeye was right, after a fashion. Spiderman had his routine down cold, and so did Peter Parker. Each day began as follows: Peter got up in his new Brooklyn apartment, went for a run around the Brooklyn neighborhood, returned home to shower, then took the train to Stark Tower or Empire University. He then invariably spent the next twelve hours bouncing between these two places, apparently only ever working or studying or occasionally stopping for coffee. In the evening he would return home with take out, only to leave again in the middle of the night, patrolling the City as Spiderman.

That first morning, Wade went out with just a grey hoodie and a baseball cap to conceal himself. Despite his disfigurement, he was good at this sort of work and certainly good enough to plant a bug on Peter’s backpack, unnoticed, as the young man hurried down a busy Park Avenue. The bug was one of Stark’s that he’d repurposed, as it had to be to pass basic detection in the Tower. It transmitted both audio and tracking data, allowing Deadpool to keep relatively close dibs on Peter as he brought the backpack almost everywhere with him. At night he had to follow Spiderman the old fashioned way, and settled for losing and finding him several times over a period of hours. 

It all just seemed so, so. . .

[[Dreary. Faded. That’s not our Peter.]]

Okay, so the experimental stuff at Stark Tower was a snoozefest anyway, as were the photography and biophysics classes at Empire U; but Peter himself seemed to have lost some luster. He didn’t joke or geek out like he used to, indeed barely spoke to anyone outside of formal settings. Stark briefly checked in on him at work the second day, which seemed to be the extent of his contact with the Avengers. He left his backpack at his workstation the third day, for about the length of a therapy session. No one visited him at his apartment, though the first evening he did talk halfheartedly to Aunt May on the phone. 

What was more of a shock to Deadpool was that even Spidey seemed to be a shadow of himself. The older man had been blown away by Spiderman well before he’d ever met Peter Parker. That Spiderman had been a bundle of dangerous energy, swinging and flipping and fighting, shooting webs and one-liners with both vigor and flare. This Spiderman was too restrained and precise in his motions, and too economical with his words, like it wasn’t fun anymore.

[[I think the word you are looking for is Boring.]]

[THANK YOU, Yellow! Stab-yo’self-in-the-fuckin’-eye boring!] 

Depressing was more like it.

On the third evening, a Thursday, Peter left his place to meet a leggy redhead, obviously a knockout even under the black winter coat. Peter had dressed up as well and looked deliciously fuckable in his tight pants, but like the predictable dork that he was, he’d brought his trusty backpack. Dressed in the disfigured hobo getup, Wade trailed them a couple icy blocks, jealous but also relieved. Peter deserved to be happy, to move on and have good things. This chick was definitely a Good Thing.

[I’d love to peep on their bedroom dancin’!]

[[Fucktards everywhere, shoot me now.]]

At the restaurant, he opted to scale a fire escape and hang out on the roof above, intent on listening to their conversation. . . Only to discover that the bombshell was the famous ex, MJ, and that, while she flirted lightly with him, his boy Peter had absolutely No Game. 

“How’s the new job?” MJ inquired. Peter blabbed about science for five minutes, and MJ’s silence spoke to her own interest. 

[Yawn.]

“Isn’t is cool working for Tony Stark though?” she prompted, trying to change topics to something more interesting. Peter hummed and said nothing.

[What are you DOING? We have great stories about Stark! Tell a funny one to make her laugh, then follow it up with a sexy one to get her thinking.]

“You still living in Harlem?” Deadpool’s ears perked up. What did she know about their old digs?

“Nah. Back in Brooklyn now.”

“What’s the new place look like?” MJ inquired. . . And then Peter failed to follow that up with an invitation to come check it out in person. 

[What a car crash!]

Peter at least managed to ask a couple questions about her latest acting projects, but sounded mildly disengaged throughout.

[Not a. Single. Effing. Joke. About doing a little role play themselves after dinner. This is hopeless. Baby boy never gonna get laid.] 

[[Heh heh. Meh heh heh.]]

[Hey look, DP! Yellow’s the crazy one for once!]

Wade couldn’t help it. He followed them after the restaurant too, onto a subway train that was recklessly close to his targets. Fortunately, the power of the Invisible Hobo Attire is mighty and universal, allowing Wade to remain unrecognized as he disembarked the train with the attractive couple. He trailed them to MJ’s apartment, where Peter said his farewells with a cringe worthy kiss to the cheek. 

[Killing me heeere!]

Peter went home and, in another break from routine, didn’t patrol that night. 

! ~_~ !

The three days of surveillance were complete, and the next morning Deadpool strode righteously into Stark Tower in his full leather combat suit.

“I demand an audience with Clint Barton,” he announced as pompously as possible, slapping his gloved hand down loudly on the desk.

To her credit, the desk attendant didn’t ask his name, calmly calling up and relaying Deadpool’s message. After a brief exchange, she lowered the phone and announced, “Eighty-ninth floor, conference room D.” 

The ride up on the elevator was stifling, and Pool couldn’t help but inquire nervously, “Jaaarvis?”

“Yes, sir.”

He grinned under his mask, relief flooding and transforming his body. “Nothing, just checking.”

[[The last thing we need is competition in the arena of nonexistent voices.]]

[I’ll cut you, bitch!]

[[He will. He killed off Black.]

[Hunh?]

“How you been doing, brah?” Pool threw out there as he would with any normal guy.

A beat of silence and then Jarvis replied stoically, “Not bad. I have rebuffed every attack on my system, and assisted my creator in a great many ways, the exact number of which can be specified within a given time frame.”

“Good to hear. I’ve been on a roll of my own.”

The elevator opened and Deadpool strode down the hallway with intentional strength and poise. He hoped this conference room doubled as a sparring ring, cuz he was gonna kick Hawkeye’s ass. 

“Hey asshole!”

The table had wisely been shoved to the wall, and Barton was standing in the far side of the room, dressed in civilian attire and holding a mean-looking tazer. “You need to calm down, man!” 

Deadpool stalked closer angrily, regardless of the risk, and yet stopped a couple feet from the other man. “You let me think he was possessed!”

“No!” Barton waved the tazer in Pool’s face. “I told you he wasn’t okay, and YOU assumed that!”

“You manipulated me!” Deadpool retorted, waving his middle finger in Barton’s face as though it could compete with the tazer.

“For your own good, dickweed!” Barton defended. “I AM your fucking friend, and Peter’s! Did you NOTICE anything in your days of observation?”

[[Typical. We finally bag us a real friend and he’s a manipulative, interfering hemorrhoid-fungus.]]

Pool scowled at Clint and ground his teeth. “He’s got his own place, he’s back in school, and he’s holding down a good job. He’s getting his life back together. He even had a date last night.”

“Oh, I bet that went well,” Barton replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes and flopping his arms around. “Did he mope all over his poor victim?”

Deadpool cringed and had to concede, “Well, sorta. But having No Game is NOT the same as being possessed!”

“He’s miserable, Pool! Obviously! He spends all his time working and patrolling. The couple times I’ve gotten him to come hang out, he’s passed out on the couch.”

“So?! What’m I supposed to do about that?”

Clint looked at him like he was an imbecile, before finally changing his approach, “And what about you, Pool? You dropped off the face of the Earth for, what, four or five months? Been rediscovering the joys of life during this time?”

[It’s been a regular laugh a minute. Let’s see. . .there was the transatlantic boat, the walk across the Sahara, and, oh yeah, slaughtering half of ISIS.]

Deadpool glared angrily at his “friend”, feeling very conflicted about the entire messy situation, and Jarvis took the opportunity to interrupt, “Excuse me, Mr. Deadpool?”

Both men froze for a beat, before Deadpool responded, “Yes?”

“Peter Parker is requesting an audience.” Did Jarvis sound just a little bit sarcastic in his tone and wording? 

[This can’t be a coincidence. He must’ve been scoping out the Tower. Getting rusty, DP!]

“Granted,” Deadpool barked, still glaring and Clint. His voice deepened dangerously, “I’m gonna cut your heart out with a spoon! Why? Cuz it’s dull, you twit, it’ll HURT more.”

“Would it help if I told you that I love that movie?” Clint taunted with a quirky side grin. “Prince of Thieves really floats my boat, guides my arrow so to speak.” 

[[This asshole reminds me of someone. . . ]]

They traded a few more aggressive zingers before the door slid open and Peter entered the fray, dressed in civvies and looking ready to rumble, “You two! I shoulda known!”

“We’re just concerned for your welfare,” Clint preempted obnoxiously, with lightening quick verbal reflexes; he had his hands up in mock surrender, one still gripping the tazer. 

“This isn’t my fault,” Deadpool rushed to defend, pointing to the archer. “He set me up – ah, fuck!”

[I’m going to break each and every bone in his body, one every ten minutes until he dies!]

“I wanna know why you're stalking me!” Peter demanded angrily, drawing closer. “I saw you last night on the train! You better not start harassing MJ, or it WILL get ugly!”

The accusations and threat cut deep, though Deadpool could hardly hold it against the younger man. He drew back as he vowed, “I wouldn’t. Of course not.”

[Peter doesn’t want a creep creeping on his new life? Why on Earth not?]

[[Lock us away in the Negative Zone if we ever get that bad.]]

“STOP! Both you idiots!” Clint commanded with natural, if rarely used authority. He paused for a beat, looking sternly at each man to make sure that he had their attention. “Yes, I perhaps spoke misleadingly, so that you would agree to look at the evidence. Which is pretty glaring in this case. Admit it, Peter, you’ve put your life back together, for which I applaud you, but you’re no happier. And Pool. Tell me again how much you’ve enjoyed traveling the world alone.” 

Deadpool couldn’t help but glance at Peter then. Was it possible that Peter had missed him as much as he’d missed Peter? The blossom of hope felt delicate and in dire need of sunshine and air. Wade felt an irrational urge to yank off his mask and confess every second and detail of their time apart. . . but he couldn’t, especially not in front of Clint. His neck bent down in surrender, not even looking as he reluctantly conceded, “No, not enjoyed.”

Deadpool could feel Peter’s heavy gaze upon him, thoughtful and calculating. The silence that drew out was thick and expectant, and the longer it drew on, the tenser Deadpool became.

[Well?! Do we pass judgment? Do we meet fucking requirements?!]

“Could you maybe excuse us for a minute?” Peter asked pointedly, and Pool glanced up just quick enough to confirm that he was talking to Clint. 

“Hunh? Oh, gladly! Couldn’t be happier to!” the archer exclaimed, bolting for the door and taking his tazer with him. It left Peter to stare at Deadpool’s bowed dome.

“I’ve missed you,” Peter announced easily, and the words provoked a shiver to run up Pool’s back. He shrunk back instinctively at the unexpected emotional assault, unaccustomed to feeling this raw while wearing his protective leathers. Hadn’t he just spent months steadying his mind and thickening his hide? 

[[Peter. . .]]

Peter reached for a gloved hand, stilling Pool’s retreat. “Please.”

Deadpool had to say something. He had no idea what, just something true, something intimate, some offering from his side. He took a steadying breath and tried to make sense, “I’ve gotten pretty good at not thinking about you, but it’s a constant effort. Like I could go off the deep end if I thought too much about, about. . . what we lost. So I don’t, cuz I gotta manage the Crazy, and that’s just how it is.”

Peter gave a weak chuckle, squeezing Pool’s limp hand. “I understand better now, perhaps. I haven’t avoided thinking about you, but I’ve had to relearn how to think about everything that happened. I still struggle just to get out of bed some mornings, and it’s those days that I can barely stumble through. But tomorrow’s another chance at life, and I’ll do it all over again, for better or worse. Day after day until months have passed and apparently I’ve gotten my shit together.”

Under his mask Wade’s lips twisted up in a painfully tight smile, and the fragile hope grew fractionally in his chest. It was a bittersweet relief to be able identify and empathize with Peter’s words for once, while acknowledging the terrible trauma that created the shared experience. “Fuck, baby boy. I know exactly how that is. I’m just sorry it happened to you.”

Peter shrugged and looked away, dropping Pool’s hand so it suddenly felt heavy and clumsy. The persistent awkwardness was emotionally eviscerating, so he let his nerves overflow and blurted, “I’m living in Toronto these days, you know.”

[See what we did there? Come check out my digs some time.]

“Yeah.” Peter gave a jittery smile. “That’s what Stark said after we ran into you in Central Park. He’s been lying to me and tracking you this whole time.”

“I assumed as much,” Pool conceded with a full body shrug and good grace. Then he slanted his masked face towards Peter to express his sincerity, “But I swear, I wasn’t stalking you. Barton convinced me that you’d been possessed again, and charged me with surveillance.”

Peter scowled slightly at him, all skeptical and hands on his hips all prissy-like. “And you bought that?”

“Sure, at first,” Deadpool admitted with a shrug. “But I, uh, probably let it go farther than I should have.”

[That’s what she said.]

[[That’s what WE said, jizzbrain. Let us count the ways!]]

“STOP!” Deadpool ordered vehemently, stamping his boot loudly even on the carpet. The boxes shut up for a moment, and Deadpool forced himself focus on Peter. “Sorry. I’ve been doing better, really, but I’m, uh, back to talking to myself.”

Deadpool didn’t like the look of maybe pity on Peter’s face as he shook his head and said, “Don’t be sorry. I’ve never minded.” That was pretty hard to believe. “I just hope they aren’t saying anything too horrible.”

[Any chance for a pity fuck?]

Deadpool had never been on good terms with an ex, and he couldn’t say he particularly cared for the experience now. How was he supposed to protect himself from the pain when Peter kept sending touchy feels and kind words his way? “Nothing worse than usual.” 

“So you spied on everything going on in my life. What. . . what have you been up to?”

“You won’t believe me if I tell you,” Deadpool warned, guilt robbing him of his enthusiasm. The manic rant on this topic, which he’d composed many times in his head, would remain scripted but undelivered. 

“Oh yeah?” Peter teased back gently. “I’m pretty jaded. I’ve seen some pretty unbelievable things.”

[♪♬ Do you believe in life after love? I really don’t think we’re strong enough! ♪♬]

“I stowed away on a ship crossing the Atlantic,” he offered hesitantly, testing for the reaction.

“Hm,” Peter barely acknowledged. 

So Pool upped the ante, “I threw myself off a waterfall in Japan, where spurned lovers famously jump to their deaths.”

“Of course you did.” Peter actually turned away from him and sat in a conference chair, which wouldn’t do at all.

“I crossed the Sahara on foot!” Pool announced proudly, hauling his ass up on the table next to the other man. He crossed and swung his long legs in front of him provocatively.

“Well, that is something I suppose,” Peter conceded lazily, glancing away with feigned disinterest.

“I slaughtered the better half of ISIS!” Deadpool boasted menacingly, leaning in close so that their faces were inches apart and Peter couldn’t look away. 

“So that’s what happened,” Peter deadpanned, eyebrow arched.

“You aren’t impressed at all?” Deadpool whined in petulant disappointment, lip pouting under his mask. 

“I’ve always been impressed, Wade. You know that,” Peter flattered and assured with an affectionate smile. “It certainly sounds more exciting than what I’ve been doing here.”

[[We love you, Peter! You always have the right words to say!]]

“I don’t think rebuilding your life is supposed to be exciting,” Deadpool offered, nervous about their easy repartee but also eager to reach out, to encourage this revival. “Plus, all that epic adventure shit sounds a lot better on paper. Ninety five percent suffering and deprivation is what it was, followed by five percent teeth cracking adrenaline. It was good for the soul, I guess; or in my case, it was good for the mind, but it still SUCKED big time. I missed. . . uh, you know, the developed world and everything.” 

[We missed waking up to your perfect face, jerking off to your amazing lips, then sucking you awake, your pretty cock in my mouth and my fingers parting your cheeks; we missed licking the sweat off your back, the cum off your stomach, chocolate from inside your mouth; we missed the dirty words whispered in your ear, the love songs belted from our lungs, and the teasing, twisting dance we did around each other, like two flames burning intricately into one.]

[[THAT’s what you’ve taken from the incinerator experience that you don’t even remember?!]]

Peter smiled at him, and then seemed to slip reluctantly out of the chair. “I need to head to class now. . . But it sounds like we have a lot to talk about. You gonna be in town for a few days?”

[Now that’s an invitation if I’ve ever heard one.]

Wary excitement sloshed through Deadpool. “It’s gonna take at least that long to pay Barton back.”

Peter gave him a one-sided smirk, “You get on that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this your GRAPHIC SEX WARNING for this chapter and the rest of the fic. Also, power dynamics.

Peter hurried over to EU campus and went to class as a matter of principle, not because he had any ability to concentrate or learn at the moment. Instead he sat in the back row and had a minor anxiety attack. He’d just seen his ex, and had spontaneously invited him to “talk about things”. This had not been The Plan at all. Despite the fact that Barton was right, he’d gotten a routine going but still wasn’t happy, all his goals moving forward involved independence. That was why he had moved out of Stark Tower, why he worked hard to earn his paycheck, why he continued to patrol on his own and collaborate only occasionally with the Avengers. It was important that he be happy with himself; Dr. Wakka had advocated for this, and Peter had come to agree. All his plans for the future involved him pursuing and fulfilling his own potential, so he could be proud of himself. Now he rankled a little against the idea that he wasn’t happy without Wade. 

Except that it was true, and the ache of loss was deep-cutting. The prize that was Deadpool, that was Them, was difficult to deny, even as the pain of their last days together loomed large. Peter thrust his face into his hands and moaned throatily.

“Mr. Parker. Are you unwell?” the professor asked, calling him out.

Peter couldn’t help it, he groaned out what Pool would’ve said, “‘I’m not crazy, I’m just a little unwell.’” 

There were couple snickers as Peter gathered his books and fled the lecture hall, arm wrapped around his abdomen to hold in the insane laughter. Better to pretend to be sick than any other alternative. As if there was any excuse for his completely unhinged behavior.

He tried to get his shit together before his next class. He went for a snack at the student lounge and talked himself through the importance of staying in the Now, of attending his last lecture and then going to work, of not giving in to the petrifying fear that was the Future. He was about to graduate, and hadn’t a clue what he was going to do with his life, but those problems were normal for any twenty one year old. And the situation with Wade could be left open, it didn’t need to be resolved right now. 

Mentally fortified, Peter powered through an advanced biophysics lecture, followed by a photography clinic, and then he jogged back to Stark Tower for the next four hours. He kept waiting for someone to drop in on him, but it didn’t happen; it was disappointing, but his nerves probably couldn’t have handled much more anyway. He eventually went home and got some rest before patrol. Fridays nights were always particularly obnoxious. 

He didn’t hear from Pool until the next morning, when he received a text from Clint’s number, ((Birdbrain’s secrets r now mine. Dinner 2nite? Fat pat’s @ 7?))

Peter was at his Saturday morning shift at the lab, and had a digital photography project he needed to work on later, but he could squeeze in a date before patrolling. If he wanted. If they had dinner tonight, they would have to talk about feelings and thoughts that he could barely understand, let alone put into words. Peter wasn’t ready, but he also recognized that this was an opportunity that wouldn’t necessarily come again, and he was painfully eager to grasp at the memory straws of better times. 

((I’ll be there))

He finished up at the lab like a good automaton, but Peter lingered over his photography project, painfully aware of his weak portfolio. He felt pressure to complete each project to the most exacting standards, as he didn’t have a lot of original work to fall back on (beyond endless Spiderman pictures). He was busy after all, and had a lot of commitments. He called Aunt May at six when he gave up on work for the evening. 

“You’re going out with Wade?” May gasped with all the investment of family and the drama of a teenager. “What’s the plan? Do tell!”

“Oh, I don’t know! What am I supposed to say? Sorry I was so crazy, and I haven’t gotten over you, let’s try again?!” It sounded insincere and immature to his ears. He’d destroyed the most important romantic relationship of his life, wounding both himself and Deadpool in the process. The path to reconciliation was not going to be as easy or pithy as the words.

“Why not?” his aunt challenged. “I may not have seen him in months, but here’s one thing I know for certain: that boy is completely smitten with you. If you want to try again, he’ll come running.”

“He left me last time,” Peter reminded defensively, wallowing a little in his self-pity. 

“You mean when you couldn’t get up off the couch? Or after his quarantine at Stark Tower?” 

“Okay, so you’re on Wade’s side. I’ll keep that in mind,” Peter muttered in defeat. His aunt had an excellent graps of the situation for someone missing key facts about his and Wade’s identities. 

“I’m not on anyone’s side, Peter,” his aunt assured gently. “I just don’t like to see you hurting.”

“I know, Aunt May. I’m doing better, I swear.” 

So Peter put some effort into that night. He pulled on a pair of tight pants and a button up shirt, reminded of two nights ago, when he’d dressed up for MJ, hoping to make a favorable impression. Just like then, he wondered if making an honest impression wasn’t better than a “good” one. He spiked and ruffled his hair so that it had that fashionably tousled look that he knew Deadpool and the girls liked. He even made kissy lips in the mirror, wondering if this was the face that Wade had wanted; wondering if he could still be that person. Shit, sometimes he wondered who he even was anymore.

The walk to Fat Pat’s was like a stroll down memory lane, as Peter remembered their dinner here last year, and the conversation that had marked the beginning of their relationship. Peter was too caught up in his own nerves to give much consideration to his expectations of the unpredictable man. Peter’s maudlin mood was thrown, however, when Wade showed up bare-faced, wearing a black sock cap with a red hoodie and black cargo pants. He looked shy and cautious as Wade, instead of shocked and unstable as he’d been as Deadpool, and suddenly the entire experience became one of measurement – measuring the distance each had come from their initial encounter here at Fat Pat’s. Wade was the one that had grown in the last year, while Peter was still struggling to get back to where he was.

The hostess seated them with even less interest than the first time around, and then they were left to make awkward small talk. Wade, of course, had a million asinine things to spout off about, but it mostly read as nervous rather than amusing. Eventually Peter interrupted his scattered babble, “Have you and Clint made up?”

Wade shrugged indifferently. “I guess. It’s not like he tried to killed me or anything.”

“You have pretty low standards for friends,” Peter teased.

“You’d know,” Wade needled back. “He says he’s your friend too!”

“So he was just trying to get us back together the whole time?” Peter asked, torn between skepticism and admiration. “That’s some hard-core daytime soap material right there.”

“I know, right? I stole his tazer and shocked him in the nuts, while Natasha was watching and everything. We’re even now.”

Peter covered his laugh, trying not to revel too much in another’s pain. “Still friends though?”

“Possibly,” Wade speculated. “He invited me for a Halo tournament with Barnes and the Other Wilson. I guess he’s puttin’ the band back together or some such nonsense.”

“Dunno bout Halo, but I’d come watch Blues Brothers with you guys.”

Wade smiled faintly, but then his head tilted and his expression turned into a frown. “We’ll see. Pretty sure that’s only part of the benefits package if I get you.”

Peter’s sure his expression conveyed his distaste for that statement. “If that’s how it is, it’s because you think of it that way. Do you even want the position anymore?”

“I’m considering whether it’s a good fit,” Wade replied coolly, trying to play it close to the chest and yet completely failing to hide his avid interest. “Or if this is even a position that needs to be filled. The interviewer has been most vague.”

The waitress came to take their order, managing to stare at Wade only a little, which he steadfastly ignored in favor of staring at Peter. As the waitress left, the silence felt like a heavy ball in Peter’s court. As always it seemed, if someone had to speak plainly first, it was going to be him. “I want to try again, Wade, if you’ll still have me. But things are different, and we need to talk about that.”

“Okaaay. . .” Wade prompted.

“First, um, you gotta know that I’m still working through things,” Peter started nervously, running fingers through his spiked hair. “Because of Octavius, and the weeks that followed. Shit! Because of Uncle Ben, and getting bit, and my parents. Cuz of Gwen and my relationship with you, and a million other things. The point is, I’m still seeing Dr. Wakka. And one thing I know from therapy is that I’m not comfortable with the lack of communication, or the lack of boundaries we’ve had in the past.”

Wade scratched his cap in an easily identified stress gesture. “Well, you’ve listened to me shoot off at the mouth enough, I guess I can return the favor. And, uh, I’m sure you can train me to respect any boundaries you want. Woof woof.”

“You see,” Peter pointed out, voice rising sharply; being on edge like he was, it was easy to get upset. “Comments like that make me feel uncomfortable with our entire relationship. Do you even get why?”

“Yes! Jeez!” Wade mocked. “You really have been in therapy a lot, it was just a joke.”

“So tell me,” Peter challenged, still peeved. “Tell me why I don’t want to train my boyfriend like a dog.”

“Cuz you want that lazy fucker to handle himself. Duh!” Wade replied, slapping his forehead theatrically. Then he carefully placed both hands down on the table and set the full intensity of his focus on Peter. “So lay it on me, baby boy. What else do we need to talk about?” 

“It can’t just be about sex,” Peter blurted, not quite ready but pushed into it, trying to sound confident but blushing hard. As humbling as it was to admit, complete honesty was the only way he was going to get through to Wade on this issue. “We can have sex, when we’re ready and after we’ve talked about it. But it can’t just be about using each other.”

Wade’s eyes dropped and he was quiet for a long time, by his standards. Without the mask, Peter could watch his soulful fixation on his drumming fingers. Tap tap. Tap tap tap. “I didn’t think that. That it was just about screwing around or whatever. You convinced me it wasn’t.” 

“It wasn’t. But. . . that last week in the Tower, everything got kinda fucked up. I’m ashamed of how I behaved then, and the decisions I made. And, honestly, I'm a little frightened by that me. So, I . . .” Peter swallowed dryly, “Just need to be clearer going forward. Even though I’m still really confused.” 

Wade was studying him with an expression of compassion that Peter had never seen on him before. It hadn’t escaped his notice that perhaps he and Wade had more in common these days, now that Peter had logged his own trauma-induced breakdown. “I get that. Explicit consent from here on out.”

Peter chuckled weakly, whether from nerves or relief. Their waitress came a few seconds after, and then both of them were occupied in shoveling the delicious soul food down their throats. Wade inhaled half his gumbo before he started regaling Peter with tall tales from his months of traveling, complete with vibrant gestures and the odd grain of rice flying from his mouth. Peter didn’t say much, but that was par for the course these days, and he did enjoy watching the ever energetic Deadpool Show. He certainly hadn’t laughed or smiled this much in the last few months combined. 

After dinner Wade walked Peter to his train stop, taking the extremely long and circuitous route. Wade’s initial chatter faded to a warm silence, like night falling on the City’s light-saturated sky. For blocks and blocks they walked in silence, first just hand in hand, but then pressed shoulder to shoulder with their arms linked. They’d had comfortable silences before, of course they had, but few as heavy or purposeful as this one. 

As they finally neared the subway, Peter felt a maw of disappointment open before him. He didn’t want the evening to end, he didn’t want Wade to go, and he didn’t want to be alone, and yet there was only one right thing to do. He reluctantly revved up his rusty vocal cords. “So I’d invite you back to my place, if I wasn’t completely unprepared for what that would lead to.” 

“That sounds fun,” Wade chuckled darkly, purposely bumping hips as they walked. “Can I pretend you’re a modest virgin playing hard to get? Or would that be blurring the lines?”

Was Wade being serious or being a dick? Or, most likely, both at the same time? “If it helps.” 

Wade grabbed his hand suddenly, stopping them before the Peter could escape down the stairs. They were facing each other, but Wade’s downcast eyes deprived them of that connection. “It does. Pretending helps, with a lot of things. The, uh, godawful truth is hard to swallow sometimes. I’m sorry if I haven’t made that clear before.” 

Peter offered up a slanted smile, charmed by the confession and by Wade’s unique attempt at openness. His crazy ex was right though, the temptation to pretend was strong; how easy it would be to pretend nothing had changed between them. “Are you gonna stay in town? Or come back for a visit?”

Wade scratched his neck through the hoodie. “I can come back, I guess. But I’ve got this plant I gotta take care of back in Toronto. Responsibilities and all that.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter balked with good humor. “What is it, a Venus fly trap? I heard those take a lot of work.”

“No!” Wade defended with a laugh. “It’s a cactus. But it needs love too you know! And a neurotic personality might overwater it!”

They smiled at each other and Peter felt okay to lean forward and plant a quick kiss on Wade’s grinning lips. “If we can survive a second date without bumping uglies and regretting it later, I’ll consider visiting you in Toronto.”

“Ugh!” Wade howled in mock outrage. “‘Your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash!’”

Peter grinned widely. “Top Gun. Too easy.”

“Whatever. You name when and where, then just try to keep your hands off all this,” Wade taunted flamboyantly, waving his hand in front of his torso before he did a dramatic spin and sauntered off. Peter watched him walk away with a goofy, appreciative expression on his own face. He was still afraid, but he Wanted. He wanted Wade, Deadpool, and whoever he was tomorrow – if only Peter could have that partner and also be the man he wanted to be. When he lost sight of Wade, Peter retreated underground.

He spent the train ride thinking about when and where. Going out for a movie would seem like an obvious option, except that they had always given each other hand jobs in the back rows of the theaters. The string of “original” ideas that followed all seemed contrived and doomed to awkwardness. Later, after letting himself into his empty apartment, he stripped naked and reclined on his own bed. He took himself in hand and stroked his cock, remembering the distinctive calluses of Wade’s palms and fingers, the way they had dragged along the loose skin of his cock. Peter wanted to be putty in his hands right now, while also intimidated by the strength of his carnal desires. He didn’t want to be at the mercy of his aching body. That’s how he’d torpedoed his whole life. He stroked himself to an unsatisfying orgasm and swore that he would be more composed next time.

! ~_~ !

The lazy shithead in Peter had won out, as all his dorky genius was unable to come up with a better option than a date at the movies. Or maybe he was just sabotaging himself, as his mind kept drifting to fingertips tracing up his thigh, caressing up the seam of his pants, cradling his balls and dick. How could he expect Wade to keep his hands off when he could barely keep his own mind out of the gutter? He still didn’t trust himself or Wade to keep from barreling headlong into passion and pain fueled disasters, as they had during their week at Stark Tower. 

They went out to a gyros diner before the movie, and took seats facing a glass wall that gave them an excuse to avoid each other’s gaze even as they grew more comfortable with each other. Deadpool was wearing his soft hood combined with casual wear, while Peter had gone classic with a cable knit sweater and tight jeans. After a quick meal and some awkward back and forth, Deadpool fingered the elephant in the room, “So did you have any, like, ground rules to lay on me? Before we tempt fate by going to see who-gives-a-fuck at our favorite movie theater?”

Peter felt a thrill of arousal, knowing that Pool was thinking the same dirty thoughts he was. Of course he was, a lack of physical interest in each other had never been their problem. Too bad Peter was torn between his own smutty imaginings and his current anxiety about sex. “I’m okay with getting a little handsy, I guess,” he admitted awkwardly. “As long as we keep it legal. What’s appropriate for a second date?”

“Oh baby boy, you must be really lost if you’re asking ME what’s appropriate.” Deadpool’s wide grin was visible even through his mask. A beat later he got to his feet and offered his arm, complete with a flamboyant bow. “But don’t worry, my dear. There’s no one I’d rather have blue balls with.”

Peter took the large hand, so that he could pull Pool closer and then aggressively poke him in the ribs for revenge. “You’re such a jerk!” he laughed.

So they bought tickets to some romcom, Channing Tatum vehicle and took the back row as they had in their previous life. As the opening credits rolled, their fingertips were already dancing together. They traded ridiculous sidelong glances for about a minute before Deadpool snorted in amusement and pulled Peter closer, into snuggling that would’ve been kissing save for the thin spandex between them. Peter moaned quietly at the soft pressure on his neck, his cheek, his ear; it felt nice just to be close to someone after his months of abstinence and solitude. Deadpool placed a wide, possessive hand on Peter’s neck, slowly dragging down his shoulder to wrap around his upper arm, to pull him closer. 

Peter flopped helplessly forward, kissing the covered lips, wetting and licking at the material. His hands went to the Pool’s neck on their own volition, and it was only the tension in the bigger body that alerted him to his actions. He deliberately pulled his fingers away from the hood’s hem and asked plaintively, “Can we make out for real?”

He was breaking script, because they had only ever given discrete handjobs during their early theater dates, and Deadpool had never lifted his mask. But perhaps that had been the hidden appeal of coming to their old haunting grounds: to rewrite how messed up things had been the first time around. His gamble paid off when Wade rolled his hood all the way up to a cap, and then pulled him in for a thoroughly possessive kiss. Wade’s demanding tongue licked fully into his mouth, tracing every detail and occupying every space, robbing Peter of his very breath until he was completely lightheaded. Several times over the next half hour, he expected to feel a strong hand to take control of his needy, tentative erection, and yet the repeatedly foiled expectation only stoked his arousal further, until his cock was aching with neglect. It was so perfect that Peter wanted to stay like that forever, making out with all the passion of a tumble in the sheets, and yet never going farther. 

“Fuck, Spidey,” Wade murmured wetly into his mouth, hands glued to Peter’s face and neck like he was holding him still and feeding off his very life force. “I want you so bad. Just cuz I’m not touchin’ doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Peter couldn’t help it, he reached down to cup himself, then groaned – at the physical sensation, but also the sheer visceral relief. He could do this. He could have a normal sexual reaction, paving the way to a functional sexual relationship. “I do want you to touch me,” he bit out breathlessly. “Just not yet.”

Wade moaned, gravely and lustful and whiny. “You’re such a tease,” he scolded, gently biting at Peter’s chapped lips. “I’m tempted to just take what I want, what we both want. But I won’t.”

Was it wrong that those words just made Peter harder? After months alone, he was craving Wade’s touch, if not the heady mindfuck of more intimate acts. He glanced down jealously as Wade’s lap, where that big hand and those long fingers were barely restraining the surely painful bulge in his pants. 

“You’re pretty good at teasing yourself,” he flattered, with a delirious little laugh. He adored this feeling, and he adored Wade, who’d somehow managed to moderate his Crazy to vibrate at the same frequency as his own. He didn’t feel wrong or guilty or heavy now, and feeling good seemed deceptively easy. Simple, he corrected meticulously, not easy, as they spent a long minute giving each other giant, sappy doe eyes like two anime babes. They kissed a little more before nuzzling as close as possible to watch the end of the ludicrous movie. At least, Wade seemed to watch it, having a remarkable tolerance for bad media; Peter meanwhile paid more attention to the warm presence next to him. When he tried to focus on the screen, he was repeatedly distracted by how favorably Wade’s body compared to Channing’s, but when he focused on Wade, he had to repeatedly stop himself from staring. Compared to his dreary months of recovery, Wade seemed to sparkle with life.

“Well, that gave a whole new definition to the term cock and ball torture,” Deadpool announced as they left theater, to the absolute horror of a couple old ladies. 

Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek not to laugh. “I might have to go home and jerk off to Magic Mike. I bet you can move your body even better than he does.”

“You know I can! Flag that one for the future!” Pool bragged, and skipped and bounced up on his toes, “Ooo, ooo! Like next time! I’ll be sexy stripper!Pool and YOU can’t touch!”

As they poured out onto the street, Peter just gaped at the giant dork with amused disbelief. Did this lovable idiot have any idea what he was suggesting? “Really. You want to put on a strip show for me. After how hard you made me work to get you out of that mask and bodysuit?”

Wade just rolled his shoulders in a loose shrug. “Meh. I’m sure you’d be the hotter stripper, what with the web dancing and wall climbing and whatnot. It would be like triple X Cirque du Soleil. Which sounds amazing, be tee dubs! But I know my limits, see? If you dangled all that sexy perfection in front of this deformed creature and told him not to touch, he might just gnaw off his own arm. Lookee don’t touchee is more your thing than mine.”

Peter felt a stab of guilt, because wasn’t that exactly what he was doing to Wade? Taunting him with what he can’t have? Except not really, it only felt that way, and Wade’s words sounded free of recrimination. If fact, Wade sounded positively eager. He always was a bit of an exhibitionist under all the poor self-image, and certainly an attention-seeker.

“We can talk about it,” Peter said, trying to sound noncommittal, but busted by the beginnings of a lecherous smile that he barely tried to hide. He could just picture Wade gyrating athletically before him, flexing his abs and dangling that big, untouchable dick in front of him like a succulent feast before a starving man. As hot as that was, the idea of Wade wanting that, of him choosing to expose himself like that, was even hotter. 

“Come on.” With a surge of optimism, Peter started down the street and Deadpool trailed behind him, weaving back and forth at his heals like a giant human pet.

“And we shall talk about it! And many other things too! Together we shall talk longwindedly of every topic under the sun, and then we shall discuss each topic again, taking opposing positions. Our dulcet tones shall leave no conversational stone unturned. . .” Pool trailed off, muttering distractedly to himself for a moment. 

“ANYWAY, moving on to less abstract issues: I’m leaving town tonight. Has the ugly bumping been tolerable enough to warrant my own visit?” The question was inserted so flippantly that Peter would be tempted to think Pool indifferent to the answer, but he was well acquainted with Pool’s difficulty asking for things. The older man didn’t ask for much, but when he did, it was generally something he cared about. 

So Peter took a long moment to consider the proposition. He was, unfortunately, one of Those New Yorkers – the kind that knows in his bones that the City is the center of the Universe, and so is perpetually reluctant to be anywhere else. Plus it was that irrational fear that the City, and hence the world, would fall apart if he left for even one day. . . or maybe just the fear that his life would crumble apart without the busybusybusy routine. The bottom line was that leaving would require significant effort on his part. But wasn'’t Wade worth it? Hadn’t he earned a little effort, when he always tried so hard to help Peter and be good for him?

Peter didn’t manage to sound particularly enthusiastic, but at least he was reasonably sure of himself. “It’s a good idea. I’ve gotta see if I can move some things around, but I could probably come up next weekend. If you want?”

“For shiz my niz?!” Pool exclaimed, sounding equally excited and skeptical. He bounded up to Peter so that they were walking shoulder to shoulder and Pool could look at him. “But you hate leaving New York!”

Pete stopped on the sidewalk, taking a moment to squeeze Wade’s bare hand and tell him, “Yes, but I love you.”

He was trying to follow the goal and guidelines that he had established with Dr. Wakka, during his “emergency” phone session that morning. One was to take the opportunity to pause the rollercoaster ride, to clarify the fast-paced confusion by taking the time to say what needed to be said to each other. Peter would’ve liked an “I love you too” in return, but he got that those words weren’t easy for Wade, especially now that everything was still so tentative.

Instead Deadpool offered a sloppy, genuine grin, visible even through the mask and Peter knew he’d given the right answer. “You’d have to, to agree to come. Toronto is totally a frozen dog turd, you’re gonna hate it.”

“Great,” Peter deadpanned, continuing the walk. The subway was just ahead. “You flying out soon?”

“Taking the train. Gotta stop by the hotel first though. Change my threads and pick up my babies.”

Which probably meant: jerk off, change into his combat suit, then pick up his mini-arsenal of guns, blades, and who know what else. “Thanks for not bringing the katanas on our date.” 

“You’re welcome. . . Though I know how much you like them,” Pool insinuated cheesily. 

“Hmmm. Maybe, that’s a tough one.”

And then they were at the subway steps, and once again they were saying good-bye. Peter felt hurt, childish tears burn the edge of his eyes, but he refused to give into it. However much he wanted the other man, this separation also felt right and healthy. He at the very least needed time to mentally prepare for going to Toronto, and what that would entail regarding their relationship. So no. His frustrated libido would just have to settle for not getting laid tonight, and his broken heart for sobbing a little longer by its lonesome. 

“Send me a text if you get bored,” Peter invited, missing the frequent off the wall messages and pictures he used to get. 

“Don’t have to be bored to text you,” Pool flirted baldly as he dropped down one step bringing him maybe an inch shorter than Peter. He was just noticing this interesting phenomenon when Pool quickly turned, folding up his mask and leaning in –

Then they were kissing again. And Peter got to tilt down like he was the taller one, holding the bigger man in place with hands at the nape of his neck. Hands that had killed and raped and turned Them into something twisted and violent. 

Peter pulled away gently, hiding his toxic thoughts. “Go.” 

! ~_~ !

After he got someone to cover his Saturday shift at the lab (experiments don’t take weekends, duh), word must’ve gone up the ladder. Stark, dressed in a rumpled blazer over a signature AC/DC shirt, took the prerogative to approach, tailed by Barton in all black. It was an odd enough pair up that Peter immediately suspected the topic of conversation. 

“What? I’m a grown man,” he preempted, carefully removing his lab gloves. “I’m allowed to take a weekend sometimes.”

“Of course you are,” Stark agreed, nosing worryingly close to Peter’s vials and flasks. “I wish you’d take them more often. If fact, I think this trip is a great idea.”

“Really?” Peter asked skeptically. Despite Stark’s mostly changed heart towards Deadpool, Peter would never forget some of the awful things he had said to and about the other man. 

“Yeah, totally. Road trip time!” Barton hollered with humor and enthusiasm, clapping his hands together loudly.

“Hold on a minute. . .” Peter balked. “You two want to road trip to Toronto?”

“Him, not me,” Stark clarified, pointing both hands at Barton.

“I’ll get Sam and Bucky to agree, and it’ll be a good time,” Barton convinced. “Can you just imagine how stoked Pool will be when all of us show up to visit? He’ll flip out!” Then with dramatic enthusiasm, “We’re getting the band back together!”

Cute, they had insider jokes. How could Peter argue with that? Barton was right, Pool would totally love it. “You get that he won’t have a guest room, right? It’s not like you’ll be crashing at his place. Unless you want to camp out on a dirty floor.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll leave you to do whatever you do after hours. We got money for a hotel,” Barton replied, spoken like someone who was still getting used to this concept. “Sam and I’ll show Bucky the rockin’ Toronto nightlife.” 

A smidgeon of an idea tickled at the corner of Peter’s mind for a few seconds before coming fully into focus. “Is this. . . Bucky’s first time away?”

Without Steve went unspoken.

Barton shrugged, moving back to leaning against a counter. “He’s been out in the City alone, but only for a few hours at a time. He’s gone abroad on a couple missions, but always with the team. Honestly, he hasn’t shown much interest in leaving Steve’s side.”

Stark turned away from the experiments, apparently reinvesting in the conversation. “It’s not healthy, if you ask me. A man has to be able to stand on his own.”

That seemed strange coming from the famously immoderate billionaire, and yet it echoed Peter’s own thoughts so closely that it felt like déjà-vu. The entire conversation just kept getting weirder and weirder, until all he could do was laugh. Is this how Pool felt on the rollercoaster of his life? “Why not? Let’s take a road trip to Toronto. It’s only, what, eight hours?” 

“Technically, I was thinking more of flying,” Barton clarified quickly. “Economy.”

“You ass!” Peter accused, sorta angry but still smiling. “You’re so manipulative! You’re conning me right now! You set Wade up!”

“But aren’t you glad I did?” Barton shot back, giving a toothy grin that anyone would be tempted to punch off his face.

“Let’s see how the trip goes. I’m taking life a day at a time over here,” Peter only half-joked.

“Yeah, I know that phase,” Barton acknowledged with weighted understanding.

“Ha. Me too,” Stark contributed. “Good to know Dr. Wakka is putting us all through our paces.”

And so it came to pass that Peter found himself braving LaGuardia with three off duty Avengers. Bucky, predictably, had trouble at security, between the metal arm, the suspicious age on his passport, and the openly hostile demeanor. Clint had been prepared though, and, with obnoxiously smug patience, covered the supervisor with a metaphorical waterfall of official documentation from a wide variety of important people: medical paperwork that detailed the metal arm, extensive historical records verifying his age, and pages upon pages documenting Bucky’s close association with the Avengers just for good measure (signed by Steven Rogers, Nick Fury, and the POTUS). The head bitch on duty eventually let them pass, looking like she regretting ever meeting them. 

“Well, this experience is, like, twice as stressful with you lot,” Sam drawled with good humor. “So much for special treatment.” Peter silently agreed, though he didn’t have the balls to say that to their faces. It probably was a good practice run for Bucky.

“Sorry,” Barton retorted snottily. “Special treatment is reserved for the team members whose faces are plastered all over the place.”

“That didn’t sound sore at all,” Sam smirked. “Now let’s get ourselves locked in this crowded, enclosed space.”

“Don’t forget pressurized,” Peter mumbled to himself.

The plane ride itself was bearable. Sam and Clint both played it very cool, chatting and playing cards and trying out the NYT crossword. Bucky was a little twitchy and intense, but that was par for the course, and he took a hand of cards after a while. Peter too was gradually able to relax, to allow distraction from his anxiety about Wade, and about leaving the City. When the others got stuck, Peter took the crossword and finished it. 

“What a show off,” Bucky grumbled, speaking for the first time in a while, and everyone snickered. 

They disembarked in surprisingly good moods, and went through customs, where the Canadians didn’t give them any shit at all. Go figure. And then they were free, pouring out the door to where Deadpool was waiting for them, just a red and black head sticking out of a thick black parka. He was holding three Angry Bird balloons, which he held onto even as he bent into a fighting stance. “This better not be an intervention! I’m not going to the fucking Negative Zone!” 

“Give us some credit, we’re here visiting a friend,” Sam said calmly, as the most functional member group. When Deadpool failed to react at all, he attempted to clarify. “One who’s been out of the country for a few months, left suddenly without saying good-bye. Ring any bells?”

Deadpool glared suspiciously at the two actual Avengers, before looking askance to Peter. Peter gave a single shoulder shrug and the best recommendation he could, “Their intentions are mostly noble.”

“We’re FRIENDS, Pool,” Clint annunciated clearly. “Can you say that word with me? Frrrieeennnds.”

Bucky gave the archer a “gentle” whack with his metal hand. “Don’t be an ass.”

“Hahaha!” Deadpool laughed, and then with escalating mania, “Hahaha! Hahaha!” 

Peter, Clint and Bucky took an instinctive step back, as if bracing for the explosion. Sure enough, Deadpool crouched in on himself in a concentration of power, and then burst up and open, in a perfectly executed back flip. Then he bounced high up on his toes, as if about to do another one, only to spread out his fingers as though pushing the energy down, and pulsed lower and lower until he was back on the balls of her feet. Then he cracked his neck and announced confidently, “A couple backwards handsprings would’ve been more satisfying, but, you know, space constraints in fucking airports.” 

It had been a truly bizarre display, but they all grinned and chuckled to normalize the behavior. Peter could only imagine the emotional whiplash he would’ve experienced with such a severe mood swing. Though it was, as always, fascinating to watch Pool surf the often turbulent waves of his mental health. It seemed to Peter that his interesting behavior came equally from his functional glitches as from his creative adaptations to them.

“We gotta check in at the hotel, but then we should go out,” Clint cajoled. “It’s Friday night. Surely there’s something to do around town?”

Deadpool glanced at Peter as he answered, “I can hook us up with a couple dive bars, but not in the part of Toronto with the B list movie stars.”

“Sounds good to me,” Bucky inserted earnestly. 

“Are you staying at the hotel too?” Deadpool asked Peter bluntly, somehow pulling puppy dog eyes through his mask.

The younger man flushed in embarrassment, as though his sex life, or lack thereof, was suddenly on display for all. The others may not have all the gory details, but they had to know Peter and Pool were feeling things out after all the trauma, sexual and otherwise. Would they judge him for jumping back in bed with Deadpool? Or would they judge him worse if he stayed the night and things didn’t work out? Feeling all eyes on him and his anxiety spiking, Peter resolved quickly to go with his initial plan, rather than account for any perceived social pressure. “I’d rather stay with you, if that’s okay.”

Deadpool lurched forward to give Peter an awkward hug and a masked kiss on the cheek, and Peter realized that the older man had been waiting on some signal from him. Peter’s tension managed to uncoil a little and he returned Pool’s embrace. The trip had been stressful, but this was why he was here. 

Clint, Sam, and Bucky took a taxi to their hotel, while Deadpool took Peter home on his motorcycle. They were the only nutjobs braving the Canadian winter so exposed, and Peter vehemently vetoed any such mode of transport again. Pool seemed nervous as they entered the apartment, tapping his fingers together and babbling rapidly about the depressed property values in high crime neighborhoods. But actually the place was kinda nice, by Deadpool’s standards at least. It was clean, for one thing, and still in good physical condition; furniture was sparse, but appropriate and mostly sanitary. There were also unexpected personal touches, such as a cactus on the window sill, a decorative spear hanging over the couch, and a recent newspaper clipping of Spiderman taped next to wall above the floor mattress. 

“I like it,” Peter approved with a nod, hands on his hips. “But is this really what you picture when you get off? Me in the full spandex?”

“Sometimes,” Pool admitted easily. “I don’t need to see your skin to picture doing all manner of nasty things to your body. The imagination is good with logistical issues like that.”

It sounded so carnal, and Peter felt the familiar surge of arousal, the old temptation, the call of the other man’s sexuality. They didn’t have time for anything at the moment, but Peter still crooked his finger, gesturing for Pool to come closer even as he backed up. Then he let Pool press him against the bedroom wall, pulling off the Spandex hood so they could spend long minutes slipping warm, eager tongues in and out of wet mouths. When that threatened to go too far, Deadpool changed into his combat leathers, paired with the more versatile Spandex hood, and they left to meet the others with an electric air of anticipation between them. 

Deadpool had been completely accurate in his description of the place as a dive bar, well populated with dirty and dangerous looking people. Peter suspected the whole place should be condemned, and looked around wide-eyed. The only times he’d been in such a hole were when he was busting skulls as Spiderman. Bucky and Clint, however, seemed well at ease, and Sam only a little wary, so Peter tried to act naturally. Pool exchanged a few words with the bartender and then they found an open table. 

They ordered a round of watery beer and a bunch of onion rings and mozzarella sticks, during which time Pool and Clint took turns wowing the group with increasingly outrageous anecdotes. Sam got to call out their bluffs and Bucky was occasionally good for a brief but well timed tale that invariably put the others to shame. Peter threw in a couple sarcastic comments and gradually felt more at ease in the situation. By the second round, this time accompanied by sliders and French fries, conversation shifted to plans for the next day. 

“There’s gotta be some cool sites and museums,” Sam suggested, as if he didn’t know who he was talking to. 

“The Royal Ontario Museum is supposed to be phenomenal,” Peter spoke up, but it was hopeless. Both Bucky and Clint looked as though they’d suggested torture.

“Wouldn’t know,” Deadpool stated without much interest. After the first tentative round of messy food and drinks, he’d taken to wearing the soft mask over his nose so he could continue to snack. “Only museum here I’ve been to is the hockey hall of fame.”

“I like hockey,” Clint commented without much commitment. “It really gets to the heart of competition, you know. There’s no need to dress up the bloodlust with sportsmanship and respect for your opponent. It’s a basically a Viking battlefield out there.”

“Hell yeah!” some random person hollered from the table over. 

“Cheers!” Deadpool hollered back, briefly raising his glass up to his neighbor. Then he turned back to them and suggested, “There’s a Motorsport park I visit sometimes, has Lamborghinis and Ferraris that you can drive. You boys like fast cars for real, or just the video game versions?”

“I don’t like the video game versions,” Bucky inserted immediately, quick when he wanted to be. “I like actual fast cars.”

“Woo hoo!” Sam crowed enthusiastically, probably the only one at the table actually getting tipsy. “The man likes something!”

Even Peter had to smile and feel the excitement. Technically he had a license, but he’d never owned a car or driven them much. He didn’t have much interest in driving generally, as a proper New Yorker, but even he could get interested in a Lamborghini Gallardo or a Ferrari F430 F1. These were elegant, masterful pieces of machinery that pushed the edge of physics in a quest to go ever faster. 

After the third round and some chicken fingers, Deadpool parked the four out-of-towners in front of the pool table, where Bucky and Clint played a wicked game, as Sam and Peter struggled as their respective partners. Peter’s eyes kept tracking Pool, first discussing something with a ridiculous animation to a couple of biker dudes, then getting into a catty argument with a woman who’d tried to approach Bucky but had been turned down, before finally schmoozing with the bartender for a stint. By the time he returned to their group with another round of drinks, Peter was getting distinctly tired of sharing the other man’s attention. Like seriously, since when was everyone on the We Love Deadpool bandwagon?

“Hey,” Deadpool greeted affectionately, jockeying up into Peter’s personal space. “I’ve been admiring the way your ass looks bent all over that pool table.”

The intensity of Pool’s presence soothed the irrational jealousy, and he couldn’t deny how much he liked being the object of the other man’s desire, how confident it made him. “I’ve certainly been watching you parade yourself around the room like the town bicycle.”

Peter could just imagine the surely priceless expression on Pool’s face, so he continued on provocatively, making a show of sniffing at Pool’s leather. “As if we need to add jealousy to our potent mix of frustration.” 

Pool actually squeaked a little, pressing his chest and groin into Peter’s body as though pulled by a magnet, head ducking submissively. “Absolutely no cause for jealousy, baby boy. None. Nada. Zilch. Say the word and we’re outta here.”

“We still gotta talk about this,” Peter warned, looking down at that hard, willing body. It was covered in thick, impenetrable leather, and yet might as well be gloriously naked for how much he yearned for it.

“♪♬ Let’s talk about sex baby,” Pool purred seductively in his ear. “Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the good things and the bad things that may be. ♪♬” 

“Okay, you win,” Peter conceded easily, reluctantly putting a safer distance between himself and the wall of muscle. “Let’s take our leave of the Three Stooges.” 

Sam bid them good-night, Clint wished them good luck, and Bucky just told them to get some sleep before the big race tomorrow. Peter was left questioning what exactly he’d agreed to on that front.

The walk home turned into a short jog, as Peter hd zero interest in strolling around in the sub freezing streets of Toronto at night. It made him miss ordinary New York City cold. And then, almost too soon, they were back in the spacious apartment, and it was time for a talk that neither was looking forward to. Wade even splayed on the couch with his full leather costume, though he did take off he hood.

“You gonna wear the chastity suit during our conversation about expectations?” Peter teased gently, plopping down next him. 

Wade shrugged, craning his neck back on the couch so that he was staring noncommittally at the ceiling. “Boundaries are pretty clear with it on.” 

“I guess,” Peter trailed off, no more comfortable with this topic than the older man. He stewed awkwardly for a long moment, butterflies upsetting his stomach, before he conceded that there was no graceful way to talk about impotence. So he swallowed as much embarrassment as he could choke down and admitted, “So, uh, I’m still trying to get slowly back into the swing of things, um, sexually. I haven’t been with anyone since we broke up, cuz, uh, I mean, just thinking about having sex gives me anxiety right now.”

“In what way?” Wade quizzed, still staring rudely at the ceiling like a teenage delinquent but at least sounding like he was paying attention.

Peter cleared his throat and forced himself to verbalize the issues that he and Dr. Wakka had identified, “Well, firstly, I have these awful intrusive thoughts from my time under Octavius’ control. I haven’t had a flashback in a couple months, but I have trouble, like, staying in the moment when I’m, you know.” 

“Masturbating?” Wade prompted with just a teensy bit of a leer.

“Yes,” Peter swallowed. How could Wade make that word sound so hot, while Peter was too embarrassed to say it at all. “And, of course, stressing out about my ability or, uh, performance only makes it more likely that I can’t, um, keep it up.”

Peter felt like a loser, his hot face and pulse racing, and was suddenly grateful that Wade wasn’t looking at him for this. “Okay. Understandable. Is there more?”

Peter nodded reluctantly, but this was even more embarrassing, so he then bent over his knees to bury his face in his hands. “I don’t trust myself to know what’s good for. . . me or us. I really screwed things up during our week at Stark Tower, I know that. I don’t want to go down that destructive road again, but I still feel the temptation to just. . . let go, I guess. I used pain to lose control, and in the process hurt us both.”

Deadpool sighed, then leaned forward so that his body mimicked Peter’s position, knees and shoulders touching. A red leather glove came to rest lightly against his thigh and Peter looked up enough to focus on those strong fingers, not tapping for once but just there. When he spoke, Deadpool’s voice was warm and intimate, “So what does this mean for us, tonight?”

That was the crux of the matter, wasn’t it? The idea of taking any sort of role that required him to maintain an erection was more stressful than appealing; meanwhile, the idea of just shutting up and taking it, without regard for his own needs, was more arousing than it should be. The dichotomy made nothing seem safe, despite how much he wanted that magic sexual connection they used to share, and Peter felt viscerally ashamed of how little he had to offer. 

“I could. . . touch you,” Peter proposed quietly, throat aching and fighting back the sting of tears. “I want to make you feel good. That – that would make me feel better.” 

He must’ve looked pretty miserable for Wade to move those blunt fingertips to his chin, gently tilting his face up. There was the eye contact they’d been avoiding, and it stripped them both completely bare. “You do, Petey-pie. You will.”

So many of their words seemed to have double, triple and even mixed meanings, always making the situation both more and less clear than before. Nevertheless, Peter’s uncertainty didn’t seem so uncertain with Wade’s wide, adoring eyes so near, and it was easy to close the distance between them, bringing their dry lips together. Wade licked at his crease of his mouth, but Peter was hungry for more, so much more; and that’s why he broke off, foreheads still pressed together as he whispered hoarsely, voice breaking with emotion, “What do you want? Tell me. You’re always so full of ideas for us to try, and game for anything I’m interested in, and SO DAMN GOOD to me. But you won’t ever tell me what you want. What can I do for you?”

Months of frustration on this issue, mostly predating Octavius, renewed the threat of tears and Peter tried to draw away. Wade, however, was having none of it, cupping Peter’s face and holding him immobile. He planted a final, firm kiss on Peter’s lips and then assured, “I’ll tell you, okay? Just wait here a sec, I’ve got an idea.”

Peter chuckled wetly as Wade stood, hesitating to make sure Peter didn’t bolt, then moved towards the bedroom. “Of course you do.”

He wiped roughly at his eyes and tried to compose himself, but it wasn’t very long before Wade sauntered back to him with something held behind him. He looked tall and intimidating in his red leather, but the vulnerable expression on his face was something else entirely. His lightly bouncing feet were enough to indicate his apprehension, the implications of which were cut short by his coltish bolt into action –

Wade thrust a tube of lube into Peter’s hands, as well as a black, moderately-sized dildo that he immediately recognized. It was one from Wade’s personal collection, rarely used because, as Wade had explained, it was closest in size to Peter’s own hard cock. “And while it is very pleasing in size,” he’d smirked, “why use a substitute when the real deal is so readily available? It don’t look like butter to me!” 

Now though: “Whitey wants you to fuck us with that,” Wade challenged with clear bravado. Then on a quieter, more serious note, he delivered the reach punch, “And Yellow wants you to make us cry.” 

Peter’s dick twitched, but his higher functions were shocked dumb for a long moment. Never, ever, had Wade asked for THAT. Even during the good days, they’d barely been able to acknowledge that dubious aspect of their relationship. Peter’s eyes flicked down at the black rubber in his hands, and it was easy enough to imagine it pushing into Wade’s eager body; and after all the history between them, it wouldn’t be hard to make the older man cry either, to eroticize his vulnerabilities and turn each one into performance art. Was it still sick and wrong if Wade also wanted it, if he asked for it? 

None of Peter’s concerns mattered for more than a beat, cuz Wade’s demands were in the here and now, and Peter had only one passing opportunity to respond the right way; and he needed to get this right, cuz, really, it was what he wanted too. “I can do that,” Peter assured, meeting Wade’s eyes again and faking the confidence he needed. “Though I think you still owe me a dance.”

“You’ve seen the leather striptease before,” Wade joked. “Sexy it is not.” 

Peter discarded the lube and the dildo on the couch and stood, bringing his hands to Wade’s chest to help peel off the suit. “If anyone could look sexy while hopping around on one foot and almost falling, it’s you.”

“Har har. I only fell that one time.”

It only took a minute of working together to strip Wade bare, and Peter enjoyed long seconds of staring his fill. Though Wade’s nipples pebbled and his cock rose, Peter also took in the quivering legs and the trembling shoulders, and hands that fluttered with the impossible impulse to cover all his marked skin. Wade was obviously tense despite the bravado and arousal, they both were. The stab of empathy only made Peter feel more attracted to the other man.

“You don’t have to do the Magic Mike thing if you’ve changed your mind,” Peter soothed, before he was struck with a sudden hit of inspiration. “Or you could slip into a dress?”

Wade’s startled look quickly flashed a wide and grateful smile. “YES!! That’s exactly what’s missing here! Is that cool?”

“Of course.”

“Pick some music!” Wade ordered as he hustled back into the bedroom, so Peter spent the next couple minutes figuring out how to work the laptop-TV setup Pool had going on.

When Wade pranced back out, Peter was bowled over as he did a little twirl in a black and white French maid getup. The cut was very similar to the dress Deadpool had worn that first time that Peter had fucked him, only now there was no spandex covering his swollen pecs or long legs, or holding that thick cock close. In fact, Wade’s amazing prick stuck out obscenely, tenting the entire front of the (quite short) skirt. 

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Peter praised, chuckling and clapping. He pressed play on the quintessential stripping song of the modern era, and Wade jumped right into it. The primal beat immediately started their pulses thumping, and Peter leaned back on the couch, getting comfortable and fully anticipating this experience. If anyone could pull this off, it was Wade.

“♪♬ I’m just a bachelor, I’m looking for a partner. Someone who knows how to ride without even falling off. ♪♬” 

Sure enough, Wade gravitated close, so close that he stood over Peter and their knees bumped as he rolled his whole body in rhythm with the song, punctuated by a pornographic hip thrust on the down beat. Wade’s thick cock bounced and swayed perfectly with each movement, mostly hidden under black frill, but outline clearly visible. Wade lazily stretched upwards, placing his hands behind his head so that his elbows splayed out, clearly setting up his display of bulging pecs and abs and triceps. Then, just in time for the chorus, he raised a powerful leg to balance on the couch, opening his hips to thrust –

“♪♬ If you’re horny, let’s do it. Ride it, my pony. My saddle’s waiting, come and jump on it. ♪♬” 

Peter’s vision abruptly focused tight, like a laser, on the appearance of that soft pink tip, peeking out from the black fabric; only to hide again, until the next gyration. There it was again, mouth wateringly close to Peter’s face. He anticipated the next thrust so that he could note the shiny precum glistening at the slit. 

“Hey, eyes up here.” It was a bit of a shock to feel Wade’s strong fingers on his chin, easing his head up. 

Peter giggled giddily, feeling kinda punch drunk, “I love your cock.”

That cock actually bumped his chin in reply, but Wade’s voice managed an impressive degree of detachment. “You can touch it if you want.”

It sounded thrilling, despite its simplicity, so Peter carefully brought his hand up under Wade’s dress. Guided primarily by his spider sense, he was able to deftly place a single finger at the base of his root, and then draw that appendage delicately up the tree. 

“Oh fuck,” Wade groaned, sounding both pained and pleasured, and arching towards Peter even as he brought a hand down to contain himself. “Down Junior!” 

“Good boy,” Peter purred provocatively. “You got a nice cock, but so do lots of girls. Any other wares for sale?”

“♪♬If we’re gonna get nasty baby, first we’ll show and tell. Til I reach your body tail, oh. Lurk all over and through you baby. ♪♬”

So Wade pivoted around until it was his frilled ass in Peter’s face, and then proceeded to twerk the fuck out of the next few lines. Peter tortured himself for long seconds, just watching the black skirt flutter and bounce before reaching out to caress those hidden glutes, strong and pumping under his fingertips, tempting him to squeeze –

“Unnnh!” Wade groaned loudly and gutturally, pushing back into Peter’s hold. “That’s cheating. . . How’m I supposed to concentrate on your lap dance, when no one has groped my ass in months?” 

“That’s a shame. A fine ass like this should never be left fallow,” Peter replied, rubbing thumbs deeply into the muscular cleft, parting those cheeks and pulling as that closed pucker. “Definitely needs to be ploughed.”

Wade didn’t respond beyond whining into the sensation, but Peter couldn’t miss the tightly clenched buttocks and the thighs that trembled faintly from the strain of the obscene squat. There was erotic submission in the way Wade held his challenging position, presenting his vulnerable backside for Peter to molest at will. The song hadn’t even ended and Peter had had enough foreplay as he was interested in. His dick was as hard as a rock, Peter’s arousal spiking at the powerful man’s subservience.

“Are you ready, Wade?” he challenged. “Do you still want me to shove this fake cock into you and fuck you even harder and longer than a real one could?”

“Hell yes!” Wade responded enthusiastically, and Peter thought perhaps he could hear a chorus of three in that response. 

So Peter smacked Wade’s ass hard and ordered, “Go into the bedroom and take off that mind-blowing outfit. I don’t want anything getting in my way.” 

Wade straightened and immediately took a couple steps towards the bedroom before he stopped clumsily, only to glance back at Peter with a confused, wary expression on his face. A beat later, Peter remembered Octavius commanding Wade to go to the spare room, to present himself for the taking and wait for the monster’s malicious attentions. Peter flinched hard, and flushed, guilt surging forward, and then tension and panic flaring as he prepared for their entire evening to decompensate into failure. 

“I’m sorry, that was insensitive. I have no excuse, I – ”

“Hey, it’s nothing,” Wade assured with exaggerated swagger, snapping back to his larger-than-life self and all traces of fear gone. “Don’t make me wait too long, loverrr!”

Peter did take a minute to calm himself. His close encounter with a panic attack had cooled his erection, but not his desire for what lay beyond the cracked bedroom door. He toed off his shoes, keeping his breathing controlled, then removed his shirt and pants, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. He meticulously gathered the black dildo and the lube, then approached slowly and stealthily, only to have the door squeak noisily as he pushed it open. The light from the doorway gently flooded the dark room, revealing Wade’s broad back and long legs, one crooked to the side in invitation. 

Leaving the door open, Peter creeped closer, blood flooding back into his prick. He was reminded of a favorite memory in the spank bank, one where Wade had pretended to sleep as Peter had selfishly sodomized his defenseless, if eager body. This time he resolved to do it right, and he approached with more confidence, climbing on the bed and straddling those naked hips. Wade flexed and moved to accommodate the weight, but Peter placed a warm palm high on his back, between his shoulder blades. “Don’t pretend to sleep, don’t move, don’t do anything but lay there and let me.” 

Peter was so attuned to Wade right then, it was easy to detect the uptick in his heart rate, to feel the instinctive tension in his shoulders. So Peter applied equal pressure back, slowly but firmly, fingers digging into tight muscles until they eased and gave in. Then Peter placed his free hand on Wade’s shoulder and began massaging in earnest. With meticulous care, he traced the bulky musculature, finding numerous bundles of tension, rubbing and pressing and soothing until they released in surrender. As time passed and Peter slowly worked out the deep tension, his touches got lighter, scratching up itchy skin and skittering down scars, fingering sensitive growths and thumbing calloused ridges. Wade was mostly silent, but the little gasps and hitched breathes that did escape felt more real and intimate than any mid coitus wail, and Peter was very aroused by these initial results. 

I’m going to make you cry, Wade, Peter thought loud and clear, excited and thrilled and terrified. I’m gonna make you cry and you’re gonna love it. 

Peter had taken the traditional path and massaged down Wade’s spine to his lower back, and then from his feet up his powerful legs. The end destination had never been in question, and when the time was right, Peter felt confident in digging his fingers into Wade’s firm buttocks, in pressing into those strong glutes and demanding complete capitulation. Wade’s body felt like clay in his hands, lax and pliable, so that his legs eased apart with barely a brush of pressure, and his hole didn’t even clench when the lubed finger rubbed laps around the rim and then deftly slipped in. Peter spent long minutes, slowly turning his ass into a crime scene; he smeared lube up and down Wade’s crack, and all around his weakly grasping pucker, and then scooped copious amounts of slick straight into that hole. He was meticulous in his attention, determined not to linger on the new fleshy seams that he could feel and trace with his fingertips. If the internal scarring didn’t bother Wade, Peter had no right be disturbed. 

“Unnghhh!” Wade moaned deliriously in the crook of his arm, as three fingers twisted into his body, massaging and stretching his passage but only rarely touching his prostate.

“You ready for this prosthetic prick?” Peter eventually asked, slipping his fingers from Wade’s body and moving up so that he could mouth into Wade’s ear, “Ready to be splayed open like a pinned butterfly? Stuffed full for as long as it takes rubber to degrade? Which, lemme tell you, is a long time. Is that what you want, Wade? Staked through your slutty hole for the eternity of your life?”

“Fuck, yes. Please!” 

After Wade’s body had felt so hot beneath his hands, the black cock seemed cold and inhuman as Peter lubed it up, and he could only imagine how the cool rubber felt parting that feverish, combusting body. . . Wade moaned loudly as his guardian ring flexed open to eagerly swallow the toy with a wet squelch. All the prep and lubrication allowed Peter to immediately ease the cock back out, until just the tip rested inside Wade and his rim gasped and gaped around it like a fish out of water. Peter couldn’t tear his night vision from the perverse sight, and he bobbed that rubber dick into Wade hole, rubbing in and out of that restless muscle just to watch is stretch and spasm.

“You want it bad, don’t you? You’d let me put anything inside you right now, wouldn’t you?” Peter shivered at his own words. Why did that sound so menacing? 

Still kneeled over Wade’s prostrate form, Peter thrust the dick hard into that lax cavity and Wade’s entire body arched back as he moaned happily. “Yes, yes. More. Anything.”

Even a glass bottle, Wade? 

Peter shivered at the thought, arousal suddenly iced again. He couldn’t say that, not while prying open his lover’s vulnerable body with a strange foreign object. If that was the price of making Wade cry, then he couldn’t pay it. Except –

“Say it, Peter. It’s okay.” Wade’s voice was still muffled by the bed and his elbow and Peter wished he had some context beyond the obvious. Is this what they got for trying to put boundaries on their relationship? Their mutual freak finding some other way to act out? 

“Fucking shit,” Peter muttered breathlessly, steeling himself to continue in mind and motion. “Would you let me?” he continued hoarsely. “I could work you through an entire six pack. Carefully, of course. I want to hold you captive and torment you sexually, not destroy my favorite plaything.”

Wade moaned piteously, spinning Peter’s head with as much with fear as arousal. Again his confidence faltered, but Wade’s right arm came down and reached under his hips, to where his cock was trapped against the mattress. Peter licked his lips and started up a rhythm of deep, steady penetration. 

“I’d run a train on your ass, babe. Why stop at glass bottles? Why not the tv remote? Or how about a damn hand-blown glass dildo?” 

Wade snickered brokenly and Peter retaliated with a vigorous plunge that nailed his prostate and made him keen loudly. “Do you find this funny, Deadpool?”

Peter wished he could see the other man’s hidden face, though he was also pleasantly surprised to realize that he still knew the right thing to say. Wade pushed back into the next thrust, and groaned, “No. Definitely not funny. . . Please don’t stop.”

Of course Wade had to add that, Peter noted, even though he had done anything but. It seemed almost compulsive. 

“Do you still want to cry?” Peter asked quietly, despite his suspicions that the other man was already close. Wade nodded clumsily into the mattress, so Peter kept pistoning the fake cock through his fluttering rim, picking up speed and power. “Feel that? Does it feel like a real cock?”

Wade’s body jerked a little with the force of the thrusts as a grunt was fucked out of him, “No!” 

“I bet you picked this cock because it’s closest in size to mine. Am I right?”

Wade nodded jerkily, thighs quivering with the force of the pounding.

“Are you pretending that it’s me fucking into you, Wade? Splitting you open and making you move with my dick? That we’re connected by my root growing into you, fusing our flesh together in pleasure so intense it hurts?”

“Gnungh! Fuck, Petey, yes!” Wade’s escalating sounds made it tempting to continue plowing in harder and faster, and Peter had to keep himself well in check, certain that he could perforate Wade’s bowels if he wasn’t careful. The man’s knees were bent and splayed open like a frog, ass twerking back into the deep penetration as Wade fisted his hidden cock, his face buried between his other arm and the mattress. It was a delectable sight, and Peter ached to replace that black rubber with his own hard flesh, despite the rules he had set for both of them.

It was with a flash of jealousy and frustration that Peter delivered his final blow, “Well it’s not. You were MY custom fit, babe, but what use does a limp dick have for that? Doc Ock and your healing factor have undone all our hard work, Wade. And all I have is this fake cock to refashion your sensitive hole into an exact mold of no one’s dick. Certainly not mine.”

The words were poison, vomit, and they felt vile and hurtful on Peter’s tongue, and yet Wade cried out loudly, painfully, as his body seized in orgasm. Hidden in the sheets, to Peter’s disappointment, Wade’s release lasted for several seconds and hit him hard. Peter stroked down the strong, tense back, and then those shoulders began shaking as the crying started. At first just some loud sniffing, but after Peter gently eased the rubber cock from his body, it progressed to more dramatic blubbering. “I’mma custom fit! Not the town bicycle. . . I’mma custom fit!”

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay, just let it all out,” Peter murmured uselessly, manhandling Wade’s arm up so that he could wedge himself underneath his shoulder, into that delicious sweaty heat and the familiar smell of cum and Wade. “Of course you’re a custom job, you’re the incomparable Wade Winston Wilson.”

Wade released a little wail, only to cut it off with a particularly unbalanced giggle. Peter continued to whisper sweet nothings, occasionally kissing tear stained cheeks and pressing sticky finger pads into Wade’s ribs as though he was Spiderman clinging to a wall. “That was perfect, and you’re amazing. No one can take a cock like you. I’m really lucky, cuz I have so many uses for you. Even if a docking station for my conflicted prick isn’t always one of them. There’s so many other things we can do.”

Wade hiccupped wetly, and after a couple minutes his breathing evened out as he calmed. Nuzzling into Peter’s temple and wiping his tears in his hair, he eventually croaked roughly, “It feels good sometimes. To cry, you know? I haven’t cried since that day on the top of Stark Tower. It’s. . . hard for me. The ol’ cheese grater doesn’t process shit like that too well.” 

Now that was a loaded statement if he ever heard one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your reviews! I'm glad everyone is so excited, hope I don't let you down!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Nothing major. See bottom for specific warnings.

“Shit like what?” Peter clarified, though he had to suspect.

“You know. Those violent, ugly feels. The fear, the grief, the hate,” Wade explained with difficulty. The heavy, dark intimacy made it easier, but these were things about which he rarely thought and never spoke. He only did so now because Peter had been so open about his own problems, and he felt very close to him, literally and metaphorically. “When we get agitated to a certain point, it’s like there are only two options – flip out or turn off. It probably seems like we flip out a lot, but we turn off way more.”

[[Especially now that I’ve mastered Sims mode. We haven’t had a noteworthy meltdown in a couple months, and haven’t had a serious one since the infamous Dragonpool incident.]]

[Grrr…]

Peter pulled his face back a couple inches, just far enough to let some cool air between them. “I don’t want you to turn off. Or flip out.”

“I do it sometimes with you, when things get too intense. But you also give me a third option, to actually feel some of the horrible things that eat me up inside.” Wade let his eyes drift down to Peter’s shadowed lips, then murmured even quieter, barely audible, “It’s one of the reasons I love you.”

“I love you too,” Peter responded immediately, eliminating that inch of space between them and smooshing his lips to Wade’s jaw. “I love making you laugh, and cry, and throw a tantrum.” 

Wade hummed in amusement. “You remember that next time I take a stand at Trader Joe’s.”

“Oh, the memories!” Peter chuckled quietly. 

For a time they just held each other, until Wade’s thoughts just couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Can I touch you?”

“Wade –” Peter began, voice already wary and defensive, so Wade spoke over him to immediately silence that fear. 

“Not to make you cum, not if you aren’t ready. Just to be close to you.” Wade brought his hand up to rest on Peter’s breast, right above his heart. His voice slowed and gentled, “You don’t have to do anything.”

[[We don’t need much.]]

Peter shuddered and drew away, shifting onto his back and bringing Wade to curl next to him, head resting on Peter’s shoulder. Wade took that as consent, but still moved slowly as he reached between them, fingers hesitating before they slid past the elastic waistband of grey boxer briefs. Peter gasped as he brushed the soft flesh within, warm and plump and vulnerable. Wade didn’t squeeze or pull or twist as he might’ve for a handjob, gently fondling and lightly palpating the tender organ instead. Peter mewled faintly under his attentions, as his prick slowly swelled fuller and fuller. 

[He’s ripe for the taking, he won’t fight back. That dick is yours, take it! Make him cum so hard he blacks out! He wants it despite his words.]

[[I WILL CUT YOU! I got us here, you miserable sicko-fuck, I get to enjoy the spoils!]]

Wade forced his hand to relax, until he was just loosely holding Peter’s pulsing prick, and murmured quietly, “Can you sleep like this?”

Peter nodded minutely, his eyelids already drooping, and Wade watched him drift off with avid attention, studying the curve of his ear and the length of his neck and rhythm of his breathing. That night Wade broke all his previous records, watching his beloved Peter sleep and cradling his softest, most private parts for hours and hours. He felt like a rechargeable battery, slowly swelling with a warm feeling of comfort and contentment and peace. 

[Mine mine mine. . .]

He must’ve fallen asleep at some point, if only cuz Wade woke up to Peter turning on his side, so that his back lay against Wade’s chest. Sunlight seeped in through the pulled curtains, painting everything in faded, flattering hues. Peter ground back lightly on Ol’ Reliable and Wade nuzzled back with the whole length of his body. Again his hands found their way into Peter’s underwear, cupping his swelling cock but afraid to do more. For a couple of minutes they just pressed languidly into each other, enjoying the light arousal. 

“Can I ask you about something? Something you probably don’t want to talk about,” Peter asked eventually, a little breathless but apparently determined to resume their heavy conversation from the previous night.

“Anytime, baby boy. Just flay me open with your insightful cross examination.”

“You might want to stop grinding on my ass for this.”

[[By which he means: Back the fuck up!]]

Wade pulled back, feeling like he’d been slapped with a ruler, but Peter grabbed that smarting hand before he could retreat too far. Lacing their fingers, he craned his neck to look over his shoulder at Wade, to explain, “I just mean, it’s kind of a sensitive subject. You know, for those who are bothered by such things.”

[[People like Peter.]]

More cautious now, Wade nodded reluctantly. “Ok, shoot.”

Peter looked away again, settling more comfortably in the crook of his elbow. “I want to understand. How you’ve been able to get over what happened when I was possessed. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy, but it doesn’t seem like you’ve suffered lasting trauma or anything. I mean, correct me if I’m wrong.”

[Blood! Shit! Entrails! Glass ground into shredded flesh! Point me to the battlefield and watch them all fall beneath my mighty sword! Who needs fucking Peter or Yellow anyway? Fire and death until it all burns to ash!] 

[[Great, now he remembers. . . Just tell Peter we disassociated for most of that specific experience, and that we live most of our life in a relatively functional state denial.]]

“I’m not saying either of those things,” Wade mumbled to himself, appalled by Whitey’s graphic summary of their supposed coping, but also unhappy with Yellow’s clinical (if accurate) assessment of the situation. They both made him sound completely batshit. “Baby boy, you’re overthinking this. Octavius is just another asshole in a long line of them, starting with my father. And, frankly, he doesn’t even rank very high. Doctor Octopus didn’t have shit on Doctor fucking Kilbrew! I mean, there’s a man that knew how to take a person and REALLY torture them, and destroy them, and grind them into dust, over and over. . .” Wade trailed off, drifting dangerously into median of memory, before suddenly veering back on course, “Until all that is left is a human shaped jigsaw puzzle. I get that the experience was the worst one of your life, but. . . it wasn’t the worst of mine. Not by a long shot.” 

Peter had tensed in his arms, in response to his words, but also mirroring the tension in Wade’s body. Wade tried for a steadying breath, forcing his muscles to unclench and his mind to move on from that viper pit of poisonous memories. “Shit, Spidey. It’s all old news to me. It wasn’t even the first time that I’ve –” [[Ex-nay on the ape-ray!]] “– been raped!”

The word choice left a frozen silence in its wake. “You’ve said that before,” Peter acknowledged, clearly picking his words with care. “I’d like to understand, if you’re willing to talk about it. Was it Siryn?”

[DIE BITCH DIE!]

Wade’s fingers clutched at Peter’s, and the human Wade attached to those digits focused on their feel instead of the awful memories. He was glad they were laying chest to back, not at all confident that he could revisit his horrific past under Peter’s insightful gaze. “Not Siryn. That was. . . more of a betrayal. Not an assault. At least not by my shitty standards.” 

Peter kneaded their joined hands for long seconds before the expectant silence prompted Wade to elaborate. He closed his eyes to see and select a memory strand from the web of options. It had been a long time since he’d allowed himself to remember or think of this at all, and digging it up now was going to hurt. “A few years back, I went skipping through alternate universes searching for Cable. In one, Apocalypse ruled Earth and Nate was War, one of his Four Horsemen. I. . . wasn’t very successful at talking him down, or fighting him off. He, uh, hacked off one of our arms while we were trying to kill each other.”

While not an extreme injury by Deadpool’s standards, the shock had been severe. The physical pain had been relatively unremarkable, but the agonizing feeling of betrayal and heartbreak echoed through his chest even now. Wade took a deep, if shaky breath and continued, “Then once he had me at his mercy, he ripped off my other arm so that I couldn’t fight back when he, he took what he wanted, and then, um, fuck!”

Wade was feeling light headed, on the verge of disassociating, grounded only by the painful feeling of Peter’s nails digging into the back of Wade’s hands. “It doesn’t matter what else, it was all just torture at that point. With the massive blood loss, we could hardly move anyway. I was barely even conscious really. . .” 

[That’s some sick shit to make up about Cable! If one of us is a cesspool of brain rot, it’s you, DP!]

“Jesus Christ, Pool,” Peter hissed. “That’s horrible.”

[[I still remember too.]]

“. . . The next day I jumped realities with my allies and pretended that nothing had happened. And that was that.” Wade’s limbs felt heavy and nonresponsive, his breathing slow but labored, while his heart rate and pulse had shot through the roof. Peter brought their entwined hands up and then kissed the nail marks that lingered on Wade’s skin, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from shaking apart.

[Why don’t I remember any of this? What the fuck happened?! DON’T FUCKING IGNORE ME!]

[[Whitey’s getting worked up, brah. Deal with this, or we’re gonna have to Sim.]]

The conversation was like a maze, with only one path that allowed Wade to avoid spazzing out or checking out, and after a panicked second of swirling confusion, the compass of Wade’s thoughts gravitated in the right direction. “And then I forgave my Nathan. Cuz, well, it wasn’t really him.”

[[Just like we’re forgiving you, Petey-pie. So don’t look the gift horse in its rotten mouth.]] 

Wade felt instantly better; not great, but composed enough to put up a defense for the man who wasn’t there to speak for himself. “I know you hate him, but the real Nathan Summers was an honorable man; more than a hero, he was a fucking messiah. He couldn’t treat me with affection he didn’t feel, but he never took anything I wasn’t offering. I never even told him about what happened in the alternate universe.”

Peter was silent in his arms, still except for the reassuring swell and fall of his breathing. Wade nosed the cute brown curls at the nape of Peter’s neck, relieved to be done with his story, and curious to hear his lover’s thoughts, despite the upsetting subject matter. Peter inhaled sharply as he reanimated, and Wade knew that he had struck a chord in the younger man. 

“Thank you for telling me, I know how difficult it is to even talk about,” he effused, voice thick with emotion and pain. “I . . . I guess it’d be nice to just put it behind me like you do, but I don’t think I work like that. I think about that terrible night a lot, even all these months later. I’ve picked apart every little thing that could’ve gone differently, for no purpose except to torment myself; to pretend that I missed some kind of opportunity to take control and stop what I was doing to you. After a few months with Dr. Wakka, I see how destructive and useless this obsessing is, and I generally do better. . . 

“But. I do want you to know that, in the astronomically unlikely event that there is a next time,” Peter’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat, as Wade clung to every word, “you can know it’s not me earlier, cuz I’d never restrain you like that. I’ll never tie you down or put you in handcuffs, or bind you in any way. The idea of you trapped and being subjecting to anything, makes me sick to my stomach. Maybe I’m a hypocrite, seeing as I do like having my choices taken away from me in bed; but I don’t want that for you. I want you to choose every second of what we do together. It’s the only way I can play the way we do.”

[[I do! I choose you! I love you! I love you for everything you just said. For knowing that it was what I needed to hear. For going to therapy so that you can be the sane, insightful one again. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. . .]]

The mind-blowing words stoked the smoky coals of their intimacy, igniting a conflagration of positive feelings that burnt through Wade’s entire body. Wade entwined their fingers, his free arm wrapped over Peter’s ribs to clutch at the swell of his left breast, right over his heart. His cock rubbed helplessly into the crease of Peter’s ass, while his mouth gushed molten lava against Peter’s long neck, “I do, Petey baby boy Spidey-pie. I choose you. I want to be so good for you. Tell me what to do, how do I be good?”

“Could you just keep doing what you’re doing? Maybe ignore what I’m doing?” Peter asked, sounding a little strangled. Wade craned his neck just enough to see Peter touching himself gingerly through his boxer briefs. 

[Yeah right, not going to happen.]

“I’ll ignore what you’re doing if you ignore what I’m doing,” Wade murmured into Peter’s ear, slowly pulling at Peter’s waistband until he lifted his hip and allowed his underwear to be pulled down far enough to kick them off. Then they slotted back together, and Wade savored the deliberate press of his prick along the crease of that amazing ass. “Then it’ll be like nothing is happening at all. It’ll be a literal mindfuck.”

“You’re nuts, Poolboy. Don’t ever stop.”

Wade’s fingers relaxed, so that they could washboard over Peter’s pebbled nipples. His arm and elbow, meanwhile, wrapped tightly around Peter, intimately connecting their bodies, allowing them to ripple and undulated in union. After a couple heated minutes, Wade shifted Peter’s upper leg forward and slid his sizeable cock into that tight, hot space between his thighs. They both groaned at the sensation, and Wade made sure to rub up against Peter’s warm testicles. He could feel Peter’s fist pick up speed, the rhythm of his masturbation vibrating through both their bodies. Rutting independently after their own orgasms, separate and yet alone, they grunted and pumped and thrust and moaned together until Peter’s punishing fist stuttered and white cum sprayed the sheets. The younger man moaned loudly and collapsed bonelessly forward onto his stomach. 

[Ready, aim, fire!]

“Haha, fuck! If it’s not okay to jizz all over your ass, you better tell me now!”

Peter made the sexiest half-moan half-laugh that Wade had ever heard, then deliberately shimmed his pert bottom. Wade pummeled his prick a handful of times, and then his vision blacked out with pleasure and he was shooting stripes of hot cum on Peter’s back and buttocks and thighs. “Ahhh-ah-aaahhh!”

Seconds later, they were both catching their breath and rearranging themselves to lay facing each other. Peter was smiling, looking as happy and relaxed as Wade felt, so all was good in his world. Peter planted a quick, chaste kiss on his lips. “That was fun.”

[[Unnnhhh. . . ]]

Wade grinned like a Cheshire Cat. “That was more than just fun. It was great. Maybe the best sex I ever had!”

Peter looked positively outraged, mouth dropping open as his eyes narrowed, and poked him hard in his muscular breast. “I can’t believe you! I’ve waited our whole relationship to hear you say that! And NOW you say it! When I can barely perform at all!” 

“What’d you expect?” Wade chuckled at him, squirming away from the spidery fingers tickling him. “Whitey likes all the sex we have, with only minor preferences. But you called Yellow a custom fit and made him cry like a baby. Then you let us hold your junk all night and told us that our choices were important. Best sex EVER.”

Stilling, Peter watched at him, searching his face kindly but closely. “You’re incredible, you know,” he flattered with such sincerity that, after an intense moment, Wade had to push away in embarrassment. 

[[It’s a fucking miracle we’ve gotten through the last twelve hours without Simming once.]]

He gave that firm, cum-smeared ass a brisk smack. “Come on. If we don’t get a move on, we’re gonna miss the start time.”

“Start time? Why isn’t start time after we get there?” Peter grumbled as Wade pulled him to the shower. Peter soaped down quickly, while Wade brushed his teeth and then they traded places so Peter could shave. Wade still took longer, but twenty minutes later they were both dressed, Peter in skinny jeans and a cable knight sweater and Pool in his trademark combat suit, though he had foregone the leather mask in favor of the softer Spandex one. Alas, it took a long time to microwave the minum six Hot Pockets they needed between them, so they took to fighting with the Angry Bird balloons that dangled their strings across the kitchen ceiling like so much floating garbage.

“Are you ready for this? You never drive,” Pool asked after Yellow had pointed it out to him. Did this college boy, raised strictly on public transit, really belong on a fly-or-die racetrack with a bunch of battle-tested killers? 

Peter gave a wolfish grin that was pure Spiderman, and it thrilled Deadpool to the core. “I got this, Pool. My reflexes are better than yours.”

At Peter’s insistence, they forewent his motorcycle and took a taxi to the track; apparently late, as Sam had already taken possession the manual transmission Porsche 977 Turbo, while Clint and Bucky had claimed the two tiptronic Lamborghini Gallardos. That left Pool and Peter with the two Ferraris. Pool couldn’t care less, and he still wasn’t convinced Peter should be here at all. They all talked smack for a few minutes, particularly Pool and Clint, psyching themselves up.

“Don’t total the car,” Clint called after him as they all split up. “It’s out of your price range.”

“You have no concept of my price range!,” Pool hollered back. 

[♪♬ Hey dirty baby, I got your money. Don’t you worry, I said, I got your money. ♪♬]

They all buckled in and drove up to the starting line. Deadpool had been prepared for some top caliber ability, but he hadn’t anticipated the lack of competitive spirit. Falcon was the only one out of the gate with him at the starting shot, neck to neck for a few seconds before Pool deliberately swerved his way, forcing him to spin out to avoid a collision. Hawkeye let him charge ahead, only to trail close behind and bite at his heals; the Winter Soldier appeared to playing a game of hide-and-seek in his blind spots; even Spiderman seemed more interested in testing the limits of the car than racing. As their speed approached a synchronized two hundred miles per hour, it dawned on Pool that this wasn’t actually a race. It was a formation. 

[[Makes sense. None of the others can afford to play so recklessly with their lives. We’re the only one who’d consider dying over a friendly race. They’re flying in formation with us so we don’t kill everyone.]] 

[Hm. If you clip Bucky’s back wheel at this speed, the resulting crash would take out all the vehicles. Odds are good that we’d be the only one walking away. Just FYI.]

That was a sobering thought, and Deadpool quickly flipped to video game mode, suppressing the more visceral aspects of the experience in favor of a cleaner focus. Instead of flying by instinct and the seat of his pants, he drove by a strict point system and a well-defined Game Over. Together the five men sped around the track, and as their moves grew tighter and more in sync, they flew more like a herd of wild horses, running and turning and stampeding in perfect unison. The only style of chase Deadpool had ever been part of was that of the prey pursuing its predator, and this instinctive pack behavior was a new experience to him. 

It felt somewhat unnatural, but Pool eased up on the accelerator, just a fraction, letting Hawkeye draw closer. The maneuver surely would’ve been easier with earpieces, so he could assure everyone that he wasn’t trying to kill them. Instead, he had to continue a gradual deceleration for several long seconds before anyone got the message; Hawkeye’s vehicle roared suddenly as it jumped ahead to take the lead. After that, Falcon and the Winter Soldier took turns at point with less hesitance, before Deadpool dropped back to herd Spiderman into the position. It was kind of fun, in the Flight Simulator kinda way, even if he would’ve objectively preferred crashes and explosions. It was also distinctly, if mildly, stressful. He was not accustomed to being careful with anything or anyone other than Peter, and to do so now with all their lives made him a little paranoid.

[[I mean it’s flattering. But it’s also criminally stupid. A sharp jerk in any direction would kill us all, and we’re a jerky kinda guy.]]

[True dat.] 

Twitch, twitch.

So when Peter’s Ferrari broke formation and peeled off the course, Pool followed. They parked then got out of their vehicles, and Pool could tell that Peter’s smile was one of relief over excitement. 

“What? Not a speed demon?” Wade teased.

“I have no problems with speed. I have a problem with the death trap I was strapped to. The terminal velocity of a body falling through air is close to two hundred miles an hour. But I can use my webs to catch myself in that situation, to safely distribute that potential energy into a safe arch so that I don’t break my neck like Gwen did! But that thing! If something went wrong at those speeds, there is nothing to do but die!” Peter argued with a fair amount of passion. 

Pool crowed obnoxiously at him, even though his thoughts had been generally along the same path. “You were scared!”

Peter crossed his arms over his chest and glared at him with an adorable pout. “It was fine, I just wasn’t having fun. It didn’t feel safe cuz I wasn’t fully in control at that speed.” 

“And we both know how much you like control,” Pool mocked shamelessly. 

[[ *cough* Asshole *cough*]]

“So why are you not on the track?” Peter challenged prissily. “I’m a big boy, I don’t need anyone to hold my hand.”

Pool’s demeanor did a one eighty and he shrugged demurely. “Maybe I need someone to hold my hand. Trying not to kill the other drivers was stressing ME out.”

[Getting boor-ring in our old age, DeeePeee. . . Don’t make me abandon ship.]

Pool couldn’t help it, he had to reply to that outrageous statement. “Should I be so fucking lucky,” he snapped at Whitey before modulating his voice and attention back on Peter. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve been practicing this week, but I was talking to myself a lot before that, so it’s a bit of a, um, transition. The bastards talk shit nonstop, and there are SO MANY opportunities for perfect comebacks. It’s damn near impossible to turn them all down.”

“So you’re saying that there’s a lot going on,” Peter summarized, teasing softened by his smile. “Glad you managed not to kill the other drivers though, kudos for that. And don’t be sorry, you have every right to talk to whoever you want. I bet it got pretty lonely, you know, crossing the Sahara on foot.”

“It was!” Pool agreed emphatically, nodding vigorously. “And super insanely quiet. I had to fill the silence somehow!”

Together they made their way to the stands, teasing and flirting. Sam approached them fifteen minutes later, shaking his head and looking out at the two remaining cars. “Those guys have balls of steel, I’m telling you.”

The two assassins were neck to neck, synchronizing speed and proximity in a dangerous dance, weaving together far too closely and intricately for Pool’s blunter tastes. Ten minutes after that, Clint joined them in the stands, and then it was only the Winter Soldier speeding around the track. Around and around and around in perfect, identical laps even as their time on the track came to an end, until the witty repartee died down and everyone was just watching Bucky do infinity loops. 

“Do you think he’s brain jammed?” Pool asked, easily imagining himself stuck on autopilot at two hundred miles per hour.

[[Is that worry I detect?! Inconceivable!]]

[I don’t think that word means what you think it means.]

“I knew we shoulda worn our earpieces,” Sam complained. “We always end up needing those bastards.”

“That’s what I said,” Pool agreed knowingly.

“It’s probably nothing,” Clint assured even as he headed for the stairs. “Let’s just wave him down.”

So Clint and Sam climbed down from the bleachers, Pool and Peter following closely, and then proceeded to jump around like fools at the side of the track. Deadpool mimed the actions of spacing out, driving into a wall, and exploding to high Hell. ([What can I say, I enjoy interpretive dance.]) It was a little disturbing that Bucky didn’t appear to see them at first, but by the third lap the Lambo slowed and then approached their team of spastic cheerleaders. Metal arm propped out the window and brooding eyes framed by dark emo hair, the Winter Soldier was basically the epitome of cool. 

“Damn, Barnes!” Deadpool wolf whistled. “You make Crazy look good. Give a bro some pointers!”

Clint laughed and Peter whacked his arm, while Sam ignored him in favor of Bucky. “You okay? You seemed really in the zone.”

He looked away from them, turning his thousand yard stare out over the track, and shrugged. “I’m okay. Maybe it does take me back a bit. In a good way though. It was nice to just. . . be the machine, you know? No thoughts or existence beyond the pavement below your wheels, the world flying past.”

[Ooo, my Crazy so has a crush on your Crazy.]

[[Nooo, our Crazy recognizes his Crazy, and his Crazy has a hot meatsuit. That’s all.]]

[I do like shiny deadly things.]

[[You like Spidey more.]]

[. . . Granted.]

While following the boxes’ exchange, Pool missed whatever therapeutic outreach Sam was engaged in, which he now interrupted regardless of the propriety, “So now that we’ve all pumped ourselves up on danger, how bout I show you how we use all that aggression north of the border?”

“It better not involve sex,” Clint snarked immediately. 

Deadpool scowled at the asshole-in-chief. “That’s not even a good guess.”

“Is it. . . curling?” Peter mocked, as if he’d guessed where this was going.

“Why YES IT IS! You’re gonna love it!” The appalled looks on everyone’s faces was totally worth it. “Come on, guys! I wouldn’t do that to you. Though what I have in mind does involve ice, and sticks. And as a troupe of jacked-up adrenaline junkies with complex emotional issues, I though you’ll all find it most therapeutic.”

[I know I do. Hockey rules, baseball drools.]

There was an outdoor rink at a park near Pool’s place, where Deadpool made a couple loud, inflammatory comments about the Toronto Maple Leaves, and that was all it took for a team of locals to appear out of the woodwork, apparently eager to smack down some pumped up Americans. The thuggish skaters laughed pretty hard when they saw, within their first seconds on the ice, Sam fall flat on his face and Peter only avert his own fall by clinging to Deadpool.

“What the Hell, Pool? I thought you brought us some competition! You gonna prop up your whole team?!”

“Fuck you, Fallman! These groundbounders are gonna wipe the ice with you like a Zam-boner!” 

Peter and Sam, it turned out, could barely skate. Peter had never even set foot on ice before, but was the slightly more capable of the two due to his enhanced abilities. Clint at least had a decent familiarity with figure skating, but Bucky and Pool were the only ones equally comfortable pulverizing people on the ice as off. They made for a brutal offense, quick to violence and largely indifferent to pain. Peter played goalie, where his reflexes saved every shot on goal, while Sam and Clint figured out some kind of defense. Mainly they used their years of combat experience to take out the rival players with a minimum of actual skating. With the right stance, they could check their opponents, trip them, roll them over their shoulders or “accidently” elbow them in the face, always escalating just shy of the tipping point –

Then Clint was down on the ice, two brawlers wailing on him, while a barely-standing Sam moved like molasses. Deadpool bolted towards their down man, only for his own thug to grab his arm.

[Street rules, anything goes.]

Deadpool shoved the hockey stick across the man’s keg belly, so that his chest careened forward, then Pool yanked the stick up to crack him under the chin, finally pushing him backwards like a giant felled tree. A full helmet would’ve protected him, but the flimsy things they were all wearing only covered the top half of the head.

“You fucking puss-drenched cunt face!” he groaned, bloody hand covering his jaw and clearly full of wrath.

“Oh, so you’ve seen me without my mask?” Deadpool snapped, kicking his shoulder before checking on the others. Clint had dispatched his two attackers, both writhing where they lay, with yet a third down next to Sam. And only Bucky stood on their side of the rink, having somehow disappeared the goalie and the other defender. The various spectators were predictably unimpressed by the entire scene, though Pool noted the four New Yorkers werr glancing around with concern.

“Don’t sweat it, guys,” Pool reassured. “Just another day on the ice, nothing unusual. Except, well, this is the first time I’ve ever seen Sam truly suck at something. I guess everyone’s gotta fall on their face sometime.”

“Thanks, Deadpool,” Sam replied sarcastically. “Kick a guy when he’s down, why don’tcha?”

“Why not? Fallman over there just got one.”

They departed the park in good spirits, feeling like they’d proven something, though it certainly wasn’t their ability to play ice hockey. The unanimous consensus was to go for food, so Deadpool suggested a nearby Chinese dive where they proceeded to eat an obscene amount. Clint and Sam finished before the three super eaters, and then proceeded to discuss upcoming plans – mainly, to go to Pool’s place.

The merc’s chewing slowed, uncertain of how he felt about everyone inviting themselves over. Uneasy, for sure, but why? He liked his apartment, was proud of it even. Deadpool had made some efforts at cultivating a home when he and Peter had moved in together, but that had been with Peter in mind; this time it was for himself. So what was the problem?

[[You know what the problem is. Now it just looks like we’re squatting in a vacant rental instead of an abandoned building. Our best isn’t good enough.]]

[Tell these jokers to take their cockblocking and judgment and shove it where the sun don’t shine!]

Deadpool wanted to tell the boxes off, cuz obviously they all wanted friends, but he wasn’t going to talk to them in front of the others for the very same reason. As he swallowed his food and then lowered his mask, the best excuse he could come up with was, “There’s nothing to see. Just a telly and a couch that sits three. Though I suppose y’all can play musical chairs on that, while Peter and I have our own party in the bedroom.”

“Nonsense,” Clint intoned pompously. “If your place is really that empty, then it is my DUTY as your friend to help you fill it with crap.”

“Oh, that doesn’t sound ominous at all,” Deadpool objected with sarcasm, emotions mixed regarding any more meddling from that one.

“Don’t be such a buzz kill,” Clint snapped back. “I noticed the thrift store next door. How far are we from your place?”

“Three blocks,” Pool answered suspiciously, still not getting it.

Clint leaned across the table, pointing aggressively at Pool’s chest. “I guarantee you that I can carry the most hideous piece of furniture you have ever seen three blocks.” 

[Yes please!]

[[. . . That does sound like something a real friend might do.]]

“It’d be practically impossible to beat his last armchair,” Peter revealed, the traitor. 

“Which I don’t have now, see?” Pool pointed out, hating that he could hear the whiny note in his voice. “That’s progress.”

“It is,” Peter agreed. “Your place looks good, Pool. Though I kinda like Clint’s idea too.”

“I doubt my ability to find something more appalling than Clint, but I can carry a couple stools at least,” Sam chipped in and Bucky grunted in some kind of agreement.

The trip to the thrift store was probably more fun than it should’ve been. Pool tried on various outrageous dresses and wigs, over his combat suit obviously, while Clint repeatedly solicited opinions on increasingly tacky and tasteless items. Bucky picked over the impressive array of old junk with the fascination of McGuyver fashioning the most complex weapon ever, while Sam and Peter tried to guide everyone in more practical directions. A half hour later, they finally left, leaden with their haul. After some effort, Clint conceded that the purple and yellow striped armchair was too heavy and so settled for a giant orange paisley bean bag and a large, chipped Hello Kitty lamp. Bucky put him to shame by hauling the four mix-matched stools Sam had picked out, while the latter carried a sticker-studded but still sturdy folding table. Keeping in the theme, Peter picked out dark curtains, patterned with a space motif, and a polychromatic knit rug, as well a thick mauve comforter. Pool had struggled to identify anything he actually wanted, before finally settling on a four-foot tall, black-and-white picture of the Empire State building, cuz it reminded him of Spiderman and, by extension, Peter. Then, looking like a parade of weirdos [[which we are]], they traipsed three blocks to Pool’s apartment. 

“Well, I think we just doubled the number of household items you own,” Clint commented as he and Sam poked their noses in all the rooms, while Bucky arranged the table and chairs in the eating area off the kitchen. Peter placed the rug and bean bag in the living room, then took the Hello Kitty lamp into the bed room.

[That a boy!]

Deadpool had enjoyed himself at the thrift store, and he couldn’t deny that the little purchases had gone a long way, making the place brighter and more alive; and yet he also found the entire experience emotionally constipating. Like right now, with Clint standing directly in front of him, he felt like he would explode if he didn’t give voice to his feelings, and yet for once he struggled for an appropriate thing to say. “Ummm. . .”

The boxes were as much help as always: [[“I gotta admit, I can’t put my foot on it right now, but if I just stand here long enough –”]]

[The Little Mermaid, too easy.] 

“I think the words you are looking for are Thank You,” Clint suggested, with a minimum of the typical ’tude. 

Deadpool nodded vigorously, hard enough that his neck hurt a little, and promptly tumbled into a manic verbal deluge. “Of course! Thank you. I think. I mean, I’m still waiting for you to reveal that this is all part of Fury’s plan, or that you’re a Skrull or something. But if nothing bad happens in the future to cancel it out, then definitely. Thank you for filling my place with shit.” 

Clint rolled his eyes. “You’re welcome, though that was a damn well-qualified thanks. . . But I know what it’s like not to have a place to call home. To not even know how to make one.”

Again, there was that swell of unidentified emotion, and no outlet except for Deadpool’s fingers to tap and jitter rapidly. 

[[I know this is a novel idea, brah, but we could, you know, LEARN from the last thirty seconds?]]

It was difficult, like using an atrophied muscle, or a rusted gear, but once he managed the stuttering start, the mouth worked its magic, “And, uh, th-thanks for everything else too. It’s pretty hard to believe that you’d want to be MY friend, but I’m not so far gone that I’m blind to what you’ve done for me. The fucking turkey baster, Colombia, the whole lame scheme to get me back together with Peter, which insanely enough appears to have maybe worked . . . I owe you a bazillion times over. You’ve been more than a friend, you’ve been a best friend. And I’m sorry that I don’t even believe in such fantasies, but I’m trying. So, um, yeah. Thank you. Call me if you ever need anyone killed.” 

“I generally do my own hits,” Clint replied coolly, then continued with a casual shrug, “But Fate loves the wacky pair ups, so I try to help her out in my spare time.”

A deep throat cleared, and everyone turned, slow-mo, to take in the Winter Soldier’s contribution to this conversation. Their surprise must’ve shown on their faces, cuz Bucky said, “What? If everyone agrees that it’s time to give thanks, then Mama didn’t raise a loafer. . . I know my invitation on this trip put everyone on babysitting duty. So thank you.” 

[Duuude. SO been there.]

“PHEW! Stark was right,” Sam proclaimed loudly, spinning towards the door. “The homoerotic tension in this room in this room is as hot as a sauna. I don’t need to be switching teams at this late age, so I’mma get some of that negative five outside to cool off!”

Evening was approaching, so the guys [We have Guys!] didn’t stay long, just long enough to put their fingerprints all over Deadpool’s home and swap feels. Then it was just him and Peter, and as soon as he had closed the door on his guests, Pool wrapped Peter in his arms and waltzed him around the room, only to stop suddenly and smoosh a Spandex kiss to his cheek. When Peter’s laughter faded, he just smiled at him in adoration and Pool wanted nothing more than to lick and smear that expression off his face. 

“Today was fun. You certainly look happy.”

“[♪♬ I didn’t even have to use my A. K. I gotta say it was a good day! ♪♬]”

“Ice Cube, back before he was a family friendly actor.”

“Good, young Padawan. . . So what now?” Pool purred suggestively. “You got new rules for tonight? Or are we using the same ones?”

Peter just blushed, his eyes falling. “It’s not like I’ve got everything figure out, you know. I swear, I’m not trying to tease.”

“I know,” Pool assured, feeling more confident and carefree in this medium after the last twenty-four hours. Whatever speed they went at, he was certain they’d overcome their sexual hang-ups; the chemistry and passion was still there and were too strong to deny for long. “I’m up for whatever you are. We’ll make it good, right?”

[Ding ding ding. Right answer!]

Peter reached behind Pool, just slow enough not to startle, and pulled off his hood, fusing their hot lips together as soon as Wade’s were exposed. Their tongues battled for a few seconds before Peter broke them apart, though he kept their mouths close enough to share air. “Of course, I am feeling more confident after yesterday. And again this morning.”

“Oh yeah?” Wade rasped excitedly. “Does precious Peter Pan want to get his dick wet?”

Peter grinned and shoved Wade away playfully. Wade watched him stroll to the couch, stripping off his shirt as he went. “It’s never been an issue of want, Wade. But yes, I might be willing to try.” 

Wade followed as Peter draped himself attractively on the couch, like a Renaissance painting in skinny jeans. “It might be nice to feel a hand or mouth on my cock. If things go well, I might even be able to act out my jealousy over that black dildo yesterday.”

Wade stopped in his tracks, several feet away and mindful of the current boundaries. His fingers itched to touch, but first they had to clarify, “Should I ass-ume there’s a BUT after that? Besides the literal ones of course.”

Peter gave him an unimpressed look, one eyebrow raised. They both knew his position on puns after all. “If I’m gonna push my comfort zone to give you something you want, then there’s something I want from you. With your consent, of course.”

[Ooo, this is gonna be good.]

“Of course,” Wade demurred. “And what, pray tell, must I do to earn the honor of your pretty cock buried in my ass?” 

Peter smirked at his performance and twisted around to grab his trusty backpack, lying propped against the couch. A few seconds later he carefully pulled an expensive looking camera out of its case, and Wade couldn’t help but recoil slightly. “What’re you gonna do with that?”

“Take some pictures. . . When you left, I realized that I don’t have a single picture of us, of you. I thought so many times how I wanted to snap a picture of you like this or that, but I never did. And then I regretted it when you were gone.” Peter’s tone took a lighter tone as he finished, “So I want something to take home with me tomorrow. Maybe something I can jerk off to while you’re a country away.”

Wade’s whole body tried to shudder at the thought, and the ongoing effort at stifling the impulse only made him slowly hunch over himself like he’d been punched in the stomach. Peter had made the odd comment about photographing him, but he’d never expected this. Just thinking about the camera made him feel naked and defenseless and scared, and that only made him hard because he was wired wrong.

[Might not be too bad. We’ve had sex in front of a camera before. Remember that busty hooker from Detroit? That was scorching hot!]

[[Doesn’t count, dumbass, since we weren’t aware of being filmed. Plus, the footage was then sold to an ugly freak porn site. Shoulda been more careful when she suggested a second date. Obvious warning sign!]]

“Spidey would NEVER do that,” he mumbled to himself.

“Hey, it was just an idea,” Peter soothed, appearing quickly in front of Wade, grasping his shoulders and easing him straight. “We don’t have to, obviously. I never asked before because I kinda guessed how you felt about it. I just thought, you know, that it could be hot, if you let it. I love taking pictures, and I’m pretty sure I can make it good for you too.”

“Those are bold words,” Wade complained balefully. “You brandish that thing and I might be the one who can’t get it up.” Of course, he was painfully aware of his current erection, engaged in a valiant battle against his protective cup despite his words. 

“Possibly. But I thought we decided that was okay?” Peter asked shyly, even as he squeezed Wade’s gloved fingers in his hands. “Maybe we can be vulnerable together.”

The pieces slotted together and Wade suddenly understood where Peter was coming from in this conversation. His young, damaged, and insecure lover was trying to level the playing field by suggesting a scene that made Wade as nervous and exposed as he already felt. Wade couldn’t fault Peter for this, not really, not when he pacified his own anxieties by recalling Peter’s insecurities. Maybe like misery, vulnerability prefers company. The idea felt intimate and raw, and because of that was terrifyingly tempting.

[[Damn, Petey! You’re like the Nick Fury of the bedroom! Master manipulator.]]

[Or is he. . . a manipulative Master-bator?]

Wade chuckled nervously at his own joke, then took a steadying breath. “Sure, okay. But you don’t get to make me look at the pictures. I won’t say it’s a hard limit, but I WILL smash your precious camera into little bitty bits.”

“Fair enough,” Peter conceded, obviously pleased with their agreement. 

“Can I touch now?” Wade whined, wanting to be pleased too.

Peter looked nervous himself, and Wade hoped desperately that he didn’t punk out. “Safe word?”

[We know this one!] “Oxygen.”

Peter gave a self-deprecating smile and opened his arms in invitation. “Just. . . don’t be too disappointed.” 

In a flash Wade was on Peter like an octopus, sucking on his neck as he mumbled, “Never.” His legs and torso pressed up against Peter’s with full contact, and his arms snaked up and down Peter’s body, hands running over every inch of him. Finally, they skirted up the back of his thighs and grabbed that delectable ass, roughly pushing their hard cocks together and making them both groan. “Fuck, Peter, I want you so much.”

[I want to pry open all your doors, and pound your tight, frigid entrances so hard you see stars, spit-roasting you on all my cocks until every space inside you is filled with me. I want to ravage and defile your forbidden body in every way. I want I want I want. . .] 

Peter writhed in his arms, deliciously responsive as Wade’s thick gloves slipped between his cheeks, and acknowledged breathlessly, “I know. I want it to. Just. . .”

Wade forced his fingers to withdraw, and then peeled himself off his poor victim. As much as he yearned to mark and reclaim his lover, to own and to smear his will all over him – Peter wasn’t ready, and didn’t want the same thing. And if there was anything Deadpool prided himself in, it was his versatility in the bedroom. 

“I got it, Petey,” Wade assured, pulling off his leather gloves. Peter approached again, reaching for the shoulder clasps on his suit. Together they stripped off the unwieldy leather until Wade was completely naked, and then they just stood across from each other for a heavy moment. With deliberate forewarning and care, Wade reached down to Peter’s fly, and they both looked down to watch Wade’s large hands free Peter’s half-hard prick from his jeans. 

“Oh, shit, Wade,” Peter gasped, velvety flesh swelling under Wade’s gentle fingers. It was such an exquisite relief, being allowed to touch, that Wade fell gratefully to his knees to mouth that sensitive spout. Peter allowed the worship for long seconds before gently pushing him away. “Not yet.” He reached for the camera lying on the couch. “I want something to remember you by.”

[[This is gonna be memorable all right.]]

Wade tensed despite a conscious effort not to. “So what are we aiming for? Pride and Prejudice and Zombies? Something to upload onto UglyFreaks dot com?”

Peter retaliated by turning and quickly snapping a picture of Wade’s petulant expression, making him flinch. “Neither, asshole. But thanks for that boner-killing imagery.” Wade couldn’t help glancing down, just to verify that Peter was still hard. “I was thinking more America’s Next Top Model. Can you catfight and smize?”

Wade had to smile at that. “You bet your sweet ass I can, baby.”

And of course Peter had to get another picture, so Wade batted him away with a mix of playfulness and defensiveness. “You’re gonna wanna back up a little more than that.”

“Nope. This is gonna be up close and personal,” Peter assured, even as he lowered his camera. With his free hand he took Wade’s. “Come on, let’s go to the bedroom.” 

Wade allowed himself to be pulled into the room, torn between excitement and reluctance. With the lights out and the door closed, it was pitch dark for a moment until Peter turned on the Hello Kitty lamp, on the floor right next to the mattress. The flashy thing managed a surprisingly mellow lighting, and Wade found himself relaxing slightly.

[♪♬ Can you feel the love tonight? The peace the evening brings. . . ♪♬]

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” Peter asked smoothly, hamming it up a bit, but it was the intensity of Peter’s focus that compelled Wade to act. He stepped onto the mattress and laid himself down in the center, bent legs splayed and head thrown back as he roughly cupped himself. 

“Is this what you want?” he taunted with an exaggerated moan.

The camera snapped and Wade shuddered slightly, skin flushing with a confusion of hot and cold. “It’s a good start. But I want to see it all.”

The tense knot of fear in Wade’s gut wanted to tell Peter to ease up, that he was pushing too hard; but the usual stubbornness insisted that he was invincible, that he could take whatever Peter was capable of doling out. Moreover, the challenge itself was a turn on, as it always had been. A life of neglect and abuse had taught Wade well that anything worth having absolutely had to be worked for. When it came to Peter, Wade knew that the more he gave, the more he received; the more difficult the act of submission, the greater the reward would be. 

[[There isn’t a humiliation or horror invented that we can’t survive. Let’s do this on our terms, overwrite the time we were caught in a weak moment.]] 

“Hey.” The mattress shifted as Peter sat on the bed and placed a comforting hand on Wade’s foot. “We can stop if you want, but you’re doing good. This is just like the lap dance. Surely YOU can think of something to do with a captive, appreciative audience? If it helps, pretend the camera’s not here at all.”

[Well, when you put it that way, we are VERY good at Pretend. . .]

Girding himself with the strength of Peter’s encouraging smile, Wade raised an eyebrow and smirked salaciously, his fingers tightening so they no longer hid his dick so much as gripped and stroked it. Peter watched his hand appreciatively, so Wade squeezed and twisted and pulled at his swollen flesh, meticulously churning out the desired performance. Ever on demand for long, hard work, Ol’ Reliable swelled impressively, straight and thick and pearling at the sensitive tip. 

[Bet if he comes close enough, we can splatter cum right on that fucking lens! Now THAT would be satisfaction!]

[[Bad! Horrid, nasty thing! I’m sick of you fucking everything up by being a difficult degenerate! We’re gonna obey Peter, cuz I fucking want to! In fact, I’ve got this. You just go hibernate, or whatever the Hell you do when the feels get too much. I’mma be good for Peter, and he’ll be so happy with us, he’ll keep us and love us forever. No thanks to you!!!]] 

Even though Wade could recognize the flaws in Yellow’s simplistic logic, he was still soothed and tantalized by the exquisite thought; the long-lived fantasy that Wade could be good enough to ensure love and loyalty, from Peter or Cable, or from his father’s, or any number of people who’d found Wade undeserving. After a long couple minutes, Peter made a slow move for the camera, while Wade closed his eyes and pretended not to notice by immersing himself in the physical sensations and his vivid inner life. When he heard the electronic clicking sound, twice in quick succession, he withdrew further and ignored his ears too, slipping almost entirely into the slipstream of a dream, so that, with only the slightest of conscious decisions, he untethered his boat completely. 

In the dream, Spidey was the one working his dick, making him moan and writhe in agitated, agitating pleasure; where Spidey crouched over him, stroking and stripping and owning him. Though Wade could not feel him, Spidey’s Spandex lips hovered near his ear, breathing imaginary hot air onto his skin. Slowly, the fingers of Spidey’s free hand traced along his body, always a half inch in the air but nevertheless exploring the swells of his shoulders and the grooves of his abs, the cut of his hips and the lines of his thighs. Spidey always touched him just right, how did he know how? He made Wade’s aching skin feel sensitive and flush, sore but only in a good way; he made his scars feel like erogenous zones, and his actual erogenous zones feel like they were on glorious, pulsing fire. If he was good for Spidey, then Spidey would always love him and take care with him. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter specific warnings: Discussion of rape, altered state during sex.
> 
> While posting this, I realized that the chapters end in unfortunate places. This is necessary because of the changing POV, but I imagine that the story will be a much more satisfying read once it is posted in its entirety. No once likes to be interrupted.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Nothing major, see end of chapter for specific warnings.

Peter couldn’t help it, he was watching the display with rapt fascination, eyes wide and wet lips parted. His fingers continued to manipulate the camera and take pictures, but he didn’t look down at the screen cuz he couldn’t take his eyes off his exotic subject. Within seconds of beginning this round of pictures, Wade closed his eyes and completely transformed. Peter had been concerned that the obvious self-consciousness and physical awkwardness would make Wade too uncomfortable to enjoy the experience, but then it all melted away with surprising speed and ease.

Wade fisted himself from root to tip, his hips tilting slightly to meet his steady strokes. His cock looked stiff and ready, and his body like a wonderland of muscles and decorative skin; but it was his face that really captivated Peter’s attention. Tightly shut eyes showed a degree of effort, while his mouth was slack with pleasure and his expression fluxuated between intimate pleasure and tender pain. Peter must’ve taken dozens of pictures over the period of minutes before Wade’s speed picked up, and Peter was prompted to interfere with this exquisite performance.

“Hey, slow down, Usain Bolt. I’m not quite done with you yet.” 

Peter had expected a response, and it took him several beats to realize that Wade was actually ignoring him. He placed a hand on Wade’s naked thigh, concerned when the larger man flinched away and his whole body tensed. Slowly, Wade’s eyelids lifted, revealing dilated, unfocused pupils, and Peter ventured gently, “Hey, babe. You okay?”

Wade nodded faintly, but otherwise did not respond, eyes vaguely watching the camera. Peter wasn’t used to this muteness, not in bed or anywhere really. “Say something, Wade. You’re making me nervous.”

“Please, Spidey,” Wade begged meekly on demand, knees parting farther in invitation. “Let me earn your cock. I’ll be so good for you.” 

Oh fuck. Peter had done enough online research to loosely theorize that the reason he could make his lover cry during sex was because Peter was putting him into this mythical “subspace” beforehand. However, seeing this transition so quickly, without the usual buildup, was a more jarring experience. Had Wade really “dropped”, just like that? It almost defied credibility, and yet so much about Deadpool did. And what of the fact that Wade sometimes identified this state with Yellow? Peter’s own erection flagged in the face of doubt, though his curiosity was not so easily put off. 

“Lift your left knee up to your chin,” Peter directed tentatively. “And hold it there with your arm.”

Wade did as directed, still eerily silent. His raised leg naturally parted his cheeks, and Peter’s eyes fell down to dark, exposed bud between. Without thinking, he raised the camera to capture this favorite angle of one of his favorite people. The weak whimper was conspicuous in the surrounding silence, and Peter looked up Wade’s face to catch the grimace before his eyes closed again. Only then did it dawn on Peter what was really going on, and with it a spike of guilt at having misstepped. He was completely soft now, and scrambling to fix something about the night. He discarded the camera on the bed and immediately moved to cup Wade’s face between both hands, pleading, “Hey, Wade! Don’t do that! Come back to me, I want you here for this!”

Wade’s eyes blinked open again, looking even more dazed, if that was possible, his leg still held at an obscene angle and his expression open and accepting. Peter’s arousal stirred at the sight, but he was too deeply conflicted to overcome the anxiety. He ventured tentatively, delicately, “Are you here with me, love?”

Wade blinked slowly and a sleepy voice replied, “Yes, Petey.”

Concern and arousal seesawed, so Peter bumped their noses together and clarified, “What’s our safe word?”

Wade pouted faintly, before finally offering a quiet answer and a shy smile, “Oxygen.”

Peter heartbeat sped up, leaning back as he again surveyed the powerful body on display. “Are you using your safe word now?”

Wade’s eyes widened and he shook his head jerkily, so Peter wet his lips and took a ragged breath. This was completely crazy, as always; and, as always, he wanted whatever it was, whoever even, that Wade was offering. On a hunch, he sought tentatively, in a deep voice, “Yellow?”

Wade trembled at that, though his arm tightened around his raised leg, further exposing his clenching pucker before whispering hoarsely, “Only if you want.”

The fragility of the moment was painfully palpable, and Peter’s heart ached at the other man’s deep seated insecurity. Despite Peter’s attempts to correct the misconception, Wade still believed that Peter preferred Whitey over Yellow, which, predictably, had aggravated the ongoing internal conflict between the boxes. It was textbook Deadpool logic. Though by that same insane logic, Peter should be able to address this imbalance by showing Yellow appropriate appreciation. Down, down, down the rabbit hole again, just like he’d never left.

“I do want,” Peter assured, gently scratching his fingernails up Wade’s abs, up his pecs to thumb his taunt nipples. “I want all of you, and that hasn’t changed.” 

Wade’s chest arched into his touch, so Peter rubbed the nubs in little circles until they hardened even further, the perfect shape to pinch between two fingers. Wade gave a squeaky moan then, and Peter liked the sound so much that he gave each nipple a sharp little tug, eliciting more broken sounds of pleasure. “Do you like that, Wade? Does it feel good?”

“Yes, Petey,” Wade answered through the veil. “You always make me feel like I’m good.” 

“You are, love.” The verbal slip just made Peter harder, hard enough now to admit that maybe they could move forward. “Can you tell me where the lube is?”

A shiver ran through Wade at the suggestion, and the skin beneath Peter’s fingers textured further with small goose bumps. “Shoe box by the heater.”

Peter retrieved the tube quickly, and then he was back to kneeling between Wade’s legs, easing the bent one up over his shoulder. With Wade’s arm no longer holding himself open, his fingers were free to entwine with Peter’s, and then he squeezed lube on all of them. “I wanna watch you finger yourself open. Show me how many you can take.”

Peter backed up slightly for a better vantage point, adjusting the one leg higher over his shoulder and the other further out to the side. And then Wade’s hand snuck behind his raised leg, fingers going straight for his hole; a beat later, Wade’s entire body jerked deliciously as he breached himself. Peter stifled the impulse to reach for his camera, now more concerned with maintaining the magical spell that Wade seemed under. 

“Look at you, you’re doing so well,” Peter praised. If all he’d have were memories of this moment, then he wanted to fully appreciate the sight of Wade twisting three thick fingers into his own ass, and it was so delicious that he allowed for a brief detour. Keeping one leg hooked over his shoulder, Peter moved in to lick the precum gathering at the savory tip of Wade’s cock. 

Wade gasped then, and once more when Peter tongued into the salty slit, and then again when he suckled the warm cockhead; again and again until the gasping sounded more like panting. Then Peter’s fingers were sliding into Wade’s body, right next to Wade’s and slipping against each other in the crowded space, stretching that guardian muscle taunt and tight. When Wade’s cries grew too loud, Peter withdrew, and took Wade’s slicked hand with him. “You look amazing like this, and your dick is literally mouthwatering. I can’t wait to fuck you.”

“Please,” Wade wheezed, head collapsing back on the bed with arms splayed wide. Those long legs, of course, would be positioned wherever Peter wanted them. “Make me yours again, I’ll be a good boy.”

Peter frowned a little at the new phrasing, as it suddenly occurred to him where this was coming from. Yellow was the box that remembered: the early death of a beloved mother, years of abuse at the hands of his father, and a childhood craving for love, approval, and belonging (back before Whitey decided to Give No Fucks Ever). Obviously these issues had been present in their relationship from the beginning, but only now did the bigger picture come into focus. This reenactment, like many before it, cast Wade as his younger, hurting self, and Peter in the role of caregiver. Freud was fucking right.

“Of course you’re mine,” Peter asserted confidently, forcing himself to put these thoughts away for another time. Then he gave Wade that look that any real parent knows well – the one where you smile wide, showing teeth like a wolf in sheep clothing, all the while thinking, What a shithead. Peter just took the opportunity to be the party talking to himself for once, and snarked soto voce, “We’re gonna be talking about your Daddy issues later though.” 

And just like any other kid, Wade was none the wiser, basking in Peter’s attention and smiling sloppily back at him, his jutting hard on apparently content to wait. This new dimension felt a little dirty, and Peter had to remind himself that they’d established consent repeatedly, that this was just Wade being weird, that either of them could stop this all right now if they wanted to. . . but of course, Peter didn’t want to. His dick was getting hard again despite his nerves, and he really wanted to take advantage of all the trust and submission before him. Well, not “take advantage” exactly, just Take. And Have.

“You ready, Wade?” Peter asked, slicking up his own cock. 

Wade nodded, watching him from hooded eyes, so Peter grabbed the leg over his shoulder for leverage, then pushed the other knee up to Wade’s chin, serving his shapely ass up on a platter. Peter hadn’t topped since before the Event, and he kept his doubts in check by focusing on Wade, determined to pick up any signs of distress or causes for concern. Eyes darted from Wade’s face, quickly surveyed his body, and then landed on the action, where Peter bumped his cock up against Wade’s quivering hole; which elicited a keen from larger man, bringing Peter’s eyes back to his face to start another lap. By taking extreme care, Peter felt less guilt and anxiety about the mixed-up situation. Slowly, he pushed his cockhead into Wade, his ring parting easily for Peter and gripping him close like a returning lover. 

“Oh shit!” Peter huffed, suddenly lightheaded and afraid of shooting off way too early. Wade, meanwhile, was breathing heavy and trembling in his contorted, vulnerable position on the tip of Peter’s cock. Peter held the pose for agonizing seconds, and then cautiously allowed himself to sink into Wade. Inch after inch of dick slid into that hot, tight channel until Peter was fully accommodated, his hips flattened against Wade’s taunt ass cheeks. 

Wade was lightly panting, something faint and indistinguishable coming out of his lips. Peter bent closer and asked, “What?’

“I’mma. . . I’mma custom fit.”

“Liked that one, did yuh?” Peter pressed an amused grin to Wade’s cheek, then a quick kiss to his lips before straightening up. “Hell yeah, you’re a custom fit. I’m gonna pound out the perfect sheath right now. One dent at a time.”

Holding one of Wade’s legs over his shoulder, and the other pressed to Wade’s chest, he slowly dragged out of the slick hole, then again back in. Peter picked up speed quickly but never got very fast, feeling like he could savor the long plunge and pull forever. Wade was so amazing around him, and looked so beautifully dazed beneath him; but what felt even better was the soul-deep relief and happiness. Everything was going to be okay. They were having great sex, and this weekend had well surpassed expectations; they were going to get back together, and together they could take on anything. Right?

Peter’s hips stuttered at his thought, but then he hammered in, nailing Wade’s prostate so that he wailed loudly. They were both so close, and Wade’s neglected cock bobbed between them, huge and swollen and red. “Wade, love, stroke yourself off.” 

Wade’s eyes watched his mouth, but understanding didn’t seem to register until Peter stopped moving so that he could catch Wade’s hand and guide it to his cock. Wade moaned deliriously as their fingers wrapped around the swollen appendage, stripping it together with tight, impatient strokes, in perfect unison to Peter’s vigorous thrusts against his prostate. It didn’t take very long after that, the delicious friction igniting Wade’s orgasm, accompanied by a guttural cry and stripes of hot cum painting up Peter’s chest. Then, blessed and euphoric with success, Peter could finally let go of his stress and guilt and all the other shit, to just lose himself in the glorious feeling of Wade’s lax, pliant body. A handful of long, hard thrusts, and then Peter buried in deep, “Shit! Fuck! Wade! I missed you so much!” 

Pleasure surged through his dick, seizing muscles throughout his body and flooding his brain with happy endorphins. Seconds later and chest still heaving, Peter struggled not to collapse onto the other man. With Wade’s assistance he slid his softening dick out of Wade’s grasping hole, allowing those powerful legs to release down into a comfortable position. Only then did Peter dare meet Wade’s gaze. He still looked open and happy, but also sharper and more aware than before. 

“Was that okay?” Peter asked compulsively, hope checked for the moment.

“Peter,” Wade scolded lightly, opening his arms and beckoning for Peter to join him. “Of course it was. I mean. It was for me. Was it okay for you?”

Flooded with relief, Peter snuggled up in Wade’s bulging arms and it took several seconds for him to contemplate the question. His nerves still sang with pleasure, even as he struggled to find a way to voice his concerns. Peter was reluctant to interfere in Wade’s inner life, but he didn’t know how to voice his concerns without it being taken as a mark against Yellow. What he did know is that they needed to communicate better, particularly about their sex life. “It was kinda scary, to be honest. You were pretty checked out.” 

“You told me to pretend the camera wasn’t there,” Wade explained indifferently, and then concluded with his typical logic, “So I pretended I wasn’t there at all.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t like that part as much,” Peter replied in an undertone. He reluctantly forced himself to sit up, so that he could look at Wade for this important conversation. “As hot as that was, and it really was, I generally prefer my sex partners to be fully present. I mean, was Yellow even capable of saying no?”

Wade scowled, looking upset and sounding incredulous where he lay. “Yes, he is! It was Yellow’s idea, he was in control the whole time! He didn’t want to say no, and you like it when we do whatever you want, so Yellow made sure we didn’t fuck anything up.”

“You weren’t the one that fucked us up,” Peter assured quietly, squeezing the Wade’s bicep. “And I like you in just about every flavor you come in, whether you do what I want or not. But I am concerned that you’d retreat like that instead of telling me put the camera away. YOU, Wade, could’ve said no earlier.”

And there was the age-old problem again, rearing its ugly head.

“I know that,” Wade assured defensively, also sitting up quickly, while keeping his gaze downcast. “I didn’t want to say no. It’s was difficult, but I wanted to do it, whatever it took. And I only sorta understand what the problem is here, cuz I thought a good time was had by all. I mean, I didn’t hear you complaining when you were pounding my ass with your fully functional dick. But now we’re fighting about it, so maybe I fucked everything up without even trying!” 

Peter was obviously not handling the conversation right and it was beginning to upset him too. He shifted closer so that their crossed knees touched, so that Peter could nose at Wade’s cheek until he lifted his soulful eyes. “You’re not fucking anything up, Wade. And it was a good time, blistering hot, as almost always! I was just a little disturbed by the lack of communication.”

Wade lowered his eyes, but with Peter so close, he almost had to close his eyes completely to escape Peter’s gaze. The hurt and rejection were obvious, as he asked in a rough, quiet voice, “Yes, I hear you communicating, but I still don’t get what you’re saying. Keep Yellow out of the bedroom? That you only want him crying at the end?”

“Of course not,” Peter rejected immediately, lightly brushing their lips together. “Our bed can accommodate as many aspects of yourself that you see fit, whenever you see fit. I’m just not comfortable with surprises, yeah? Not recently, but probably not ever. Not when issues of consent are involved. . . Remember how many times we talked before you were comfortable letting Whitey out to play? Cuz you were afraid of hurting me?” 

Wade nodded, his eyes slowly floating back up as though he was really listening, so Peter continued, “Well, that’s how I feel about playing with Yellow. I. . . want that part of you, of course I do, but I don’t wanna hurt you and I need to be careful for both our sakes. Back there with Yellow, you were, like, kinda nonverbal and it wigged me out a little. Like I was taking advantage of someone who couldn’t speak up for themselves. So, next time, can we. . . just talk about it first, you know? So we’re both prepared?”

“Yes,” Wade sniffed, eyes blinking a little before apologizing, “I’m sorry. It didn’t even occur to me that it would matter. I have no excuse except that I’m a total fucking asshole.”

“You have every excuse,” Peter assured, knowing that few others in Wade’s life had ever cared about his mental state. “And I don’t regret tonight, so neither should you. We’re still figuring everything out, and that’s why it’s important that we keep, you know, open lines of communication, as Dr. Wakka would say.” 

“Great,” Wade replied sarcastically, and then, with a distinctly different tone, “Does that mean you have to warn us before you make us cry?” 

Peter’s lips split into a smile. “From now on, I’ll warn you. Or you could just ask for it.”

“Mmm,” Wade agreed, and then tilted his mouth up so that could trade lazy, wet kisses. Strong hands lightly stroked up and down Peter’s ribs, and felt divine. After a minute Wade parted their lips to groan in mock pain, “You gotta know, they’re not going to be quiet until I ask.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed, already suspecting the direction this was going. “Okay. Ask away.”

“Who do you like better? Whitey the sex master or Yellow the bed slave?”

Sometimes Wade really was mind-boggling. Amoral, murderous Whitey was branded a “sex master”, while angry, abused Yellow got framed as a “bed slave”? It was never ending levels of fucked up is what it was. Peter just shook his head and replied patiently, “Wade. I say this with the utmost affection, but you’re so crazy, your issues have issues. You know being jealous of your own boxes is completely out there, right? Thank you for trusting me with Yellow, and Whitey, and all your other shades of kinky, crazy fun. But I still like you best: the full package, big picture you. I wouldn’t pick or choose any of it.”

Wade grinned at him, then suddenly pushed forward and tackled Peter backwards, mock wrestling him into a kissy faced bear hug. He buried his response in Peter’s neck, and giggled giddily, “Cuz you love me, yeah?”

Peter allowed the manhandling for a moment before placing fingertips on rough cheeks, turning Wade’s head to make deliberate eye contact. “I do love you, I can’t say it enough. Life without you feels like just getting by. I missed your snarky, off color comments day in and day out. I missed, just. . . everything. You.”

Wade gave him a shamelessly adoring and open look that Peter had seen before and always cherished, even more so now that he recognized who was behind it. “We love you too.”

They made out a little more before Peter complained about the semen drying on their skin, and dragged a reluctant Wade to the shower. “What’s the point of me getting clean if you’re gonna stay dirty?”

“We could both be dirty,” Wade returned petulantly. “Duuuh.”

Peter made sure to shake his ass a little as he reached into the shower to turn on the water. “But what I want to do would be best done clean.”

Peter smirked at the pause, and then bit back a moan and strong hands gripped his buttocks, possessive thumbs digging into his glutes. “Oh, yeah? What do you want to do?” 

“Oh, shit!” Peter’s legs bent and he presented himself without even trying, his body’s demands derailing whatever thoughts he’d had. He inhaled raggedly, every nerve ending focused on the fingers on his ass, on the thumbs dipping into his crease and so tantalizingly close –

“Are you ready?” Wade asked with a graveled voice. “Do you want me to work you open and stuff you to the brim?”

And then it was Peter’s turn to whine in frustration, dick throbbing and hole clenched tight, cuz, “Yes, I want it, ” but, wait, wait, what about. . .

Then those powerful hands released his cheeks, hiding Peter’s empty, aching hole and, and the loss choked a broken whimper from his lips. Then Wade was the one pulling the curtain aside to step into the spray of water, turning to Peter with a confident smirk, “I can wait until you need it.”

Peter straightened up and quickly joined Wade in the shower, smiling despite the embarrassment. “I’m sure we’ll get there sooner rather than later.”

Wade just eyed him lasciviously as he vaguely wiped the cum off his stomach without even soap or a cloth. The man was hopelessly self-conscious while bathing, so Peter reached for the baby wash that he knew Wade used whenever he remembered or cared. Wade’s body tensed as Peter rubbed the soap into his tits and abs, but then slowly relaxed as Peter’s hands moved to his hips, his thighs, his cock, massaging, caressing, stroking. Eventually Wade cleared his throat and asked hoarsely, “So what were your, uh, original plans?”

Peter grinned predatorily and used hands on Wade’s hips to turn him around, until the other man was braced against the tiled shower wall, ass presented perfectly under the cascade of water. “You’re a dirty boy, Deadpool. I’m gonna clean you, inside and out.”

Wade trembled faintly at those words, and Peter took a moment get another squirt of baby wash, taking in the chiseled body on offer. “Hell yeah, Father. Are you gonna baptize me with your holy cum?”

“Not quite, but good idea,” Peter replied, running a sudsy hand up his spine to dig into a tense shoulder. A moment later, his free hand dove into Wade’s ass, soap allowing two fingers to slip easily into his wet hole. Wade inhaled sharply as Peter scissored his fingers, helping the viscous cum and lube seep out; then he added a third digit, tripoding the quivering cavity open so that it filled with water and air, and Wade moaned, long and deep. Finally, Peter squeezed his fingers together and gently thrust in and out of the loose sphincter, allowing the soap to clean away the last of the mess. Then it was Peter’s turn to tremble as he thought about that bewitching, pink hole, all clean and prettied up and just waiting to get dirty again. 

“Can I eat you out?” Peter croaked, flushing despite the hot water running over them both. The first time he had tried this had been their Last Time. Peter had suffered a significant flashback at the time, but he suspected that the experience had been as bad for Wade as it had been for him. That didn’t stop him from wanting to put his mouth on this most intimate part of Wade now though, to worship flesh that he had once destroyed, to elicit those quiet whimpers that he now knew Wade could make.

“Fuck, yeah,” Wade agreed shakily, and then Peter was kneeling down in the shower, water cascading down Wade’s back and Peter’s head and shoulders as he palmed open his feast. A quick flick of Peter’s tongue against the puffy hole made Wade gasp and the guardian ring spasm tight. Then Peter went to work more diligently, pulsing the flat of his tongue at the barrier until it quivered open, allowing access to that secret space. Peter thrust his tongue into Wade, and then deliberately rotated it along his rim. Wade was making happy sounds, head bent between the elbows that now propped him against the wall; but for Peter it didn’t feel like enough, it was never enough. 

Peter’s fingers inched in closer, hooking his thumbs into Wade’s hole and slowly, carefully prying it open. Wade panted and writhed under the treatment, but when Peter fluttered his tongue into that splayed ring, he wailed plaintively and bucked back into Peter’s face. With his hands right there, it was easy for Peter to control the violent hip movements, holding Wade right in place as he prodded and agitated his overstimulated hole. A minute of this and they were both losing their minds. Wade moaned and mewled like some kind of injured animal, and Peter was finding it hard to breathe. He’d had to relocate one hand to his own throbbing prick, and now he was suffocating himself in Wade’s ass. It seemed like a fitting ending really. 

Peter laughed giddily at himself, sorta falling sideways as he pulled away. Wade glanced over his shoulder, a bare eyebrow raised, and he surely looked like an idiot laying on the shower floor. “You better not be having second thoughts, Petey,” Wade deliberately provoked, almost simpering. “It wouldn’t look good if you could get it up for poor, insensate Yellow, but not fugly old me.”

Peter’s jaw dropped open in shock and disbelief, and he scrambled to his feet. He knew this ploy, how could he not, but still! “I can’t believe you said that, you unfailing asshole! Let’s see you say something smart while I fuck you into tomorrow. You’re lucky I like your lip.”

And then Wade got what he wanted, Peter grabbed his hips and shoved into his craving hole, and they both rutted roughly against each other, grinding together almost painfully, as the wet everything was only almost as good as lube. Peter quickly picked up a good speed, slapping their flesh together to the rhythm of their grunting and the backdrop of shower rain. As their orgasms grew closer, Wade’s movements no longer needed to be controlled, and Peter’s hands were free to slip around and fondle Wade’s engorged prick. 

“Holy mother of fucking fuck!” Wade cried. Peter managed about three strokes before Wade’s entire body tensed and his dick pulsed beneath Peter’s fingers, emptying itself on the wall Peter was aiming it at. Wade gave a heartfelt groan, and Peter held his shuddering, impaled body as he waited for Wade to come down a little. After a half minute, he tried to move, only to find that, without lube, the friction of between them had reached the point of discomfort.

“Okay, so that hurts a bit,” Wade grunted breathlessly, and Peter had to agree. Unfortunately, Wade just lowered his head and braced himself for more.

“Don’t even suggest it!” Peter scowled as he carefully extracted his achingly hard dick from Wade’s too tight ass. That was not what he’d been imagining! That was not the kind of problem he’d expected to have! Wade grunted a little in pain even as he tried to hold back his laughter. 

“Don’t laugh at me!” Peter pouted, half smiling despite his acute embarrassment. 

Freed of Peter’s cock, Wade straightened and turned to him. He did indulge in a condescending smile for a moment before kneeling dramatically in front of Peter. “Punish me for my impudence. Cum on my face.” 

With Wade making a sexy doe-eyes at him, it was obvious that a facial would be no punishment, and Pete watched his excited expression closely as he jacked his cock with fast, pointed strokes. His own climax was on him quickly and he struggled to keep his eyes open as, “Shit! Wade!,” hot cum sprayed into Wade’s open mouth, along his cheeks and nose, decorating his lips and chin with new marks and lines. Seconds later, Wade was holding Peter’s boneless body up, licking cum off his lips and sharing the taste with Peter before the shower did away with all evidence of anything. It seemed impossible for this level of debauchery to ever end or wash away. 

They helped each other dry off and stumbled to the big bed, collapsing together for some protracted naked cuddling, before sleep overcame them both. It was easily the best day either of them had had in a long time, since before Octavius had ruined their lives. 

! ~_~ !

Peter woke to the smell of bacon and pancakes. He felt happy and lazy, and took a selfish moment to fantasize about the morning sex they would’ve had if Wade needed as much sleep at Peter did. Then he forced himself up, located some clean clothes in his duffle bag, and joined Wade for breakfast. The Angry Bird balloons still littered the kitchen ceiling, but Peter was a little disappointed to find Pool cooking in his Spandex mask. A few minutes later Wade rolled it up to a cap and made cheesy jokes while they ate, so Peter couldn’t complain. 

When he heard his phone chime, Wade handed it to him. “It’s probably the Three Stooges. I told them a couple hours ago that you needed your rest.”

He was right. It was almost eleven, and their flight was at four. No way Peter was going to squeeze in another harebrained adventure when this was the last time he and Wade would have together for a while. He texted, ((Pass. Meet u @ airport))

Putting his phone down on the table, he said to Wade, “I’d rather spend the day with you. You got a better idea than the Royal Ontario Museum?”

“Fuck no,” Wade spat vulgarly and with enthusiasm. “It’s been too long since I’ve been thrown out of a cultural center. Though the Central Park ice rink asked me to leave just last month. . . Let’s go anyway. And bring your camera on this one, this is my kind of photo op!”

Turns out, he was spot on about the camera. Despite wearing civvies and only his soft mask, numerous Japanese tourists asked to take pictures with Deadpool. “I told you I was big in Japan!”

He always agreed, showing off his conversational Japanese for a bit, before striking some ridiculously contorted pose and inevitably giving the tourists bunny ears. When the mood suited, he demanded a little reciprocity, and then Peter had to let someone else handle his expensive equipment while Pool hung off him in various exaggerated ways. Whenever he checked the pictures afterwards, he was surprised at how good he looked. Picture Peter was relaxed and happy and amused, and seemed foreign to the morose image of himself that he had formed. 

And Wade. Peter’s boring pose barely changed from photo to photo, but viewed in quick succession, Deadpool seemed to dance around him, and Peter couldn’t help but wonder if it was a metaphor of some sort. He knew they saw fossils and ancient artifacts and lots of other stuff that showed up in the background of their pictures, but Peter could barely remember any of it. It felt like he spent most of the time watching Pool goof off, bantering with him, and just enjoying the experience of being together. 

Despite a couple reminders not to touch, the Royal Ontario Museum never did ask them to leave, to Pool’s disappointment, so they eventually left on their own volition. It was cold, of course, but they took a slow stroll through Queens Park anyway, putting off the minutes til they had to say good-bye. 

“So why Toronto? Unless. . . are you from here?” Peter asked, both skeptical but embarrassed that he apparently didn’t know where in Canada his boyfriend was from. Deadpool rarely talked about his past, but the impression Peter had gotten was that he’d grown up in a small provincial town. 

“Hells no. I grew up in the Northwest Territories, which is the absolute boonies of Canada. Seriously, it’s like the asscrack of the moon, and about as cold. I’d rather regrow a couple limbs than go back there.” He emphasized his words by yanking a little on Peter’s arm, via their entwined hands. 

“So why settle here? Why not New York?” Peter asked again. He’d been putting off this conversation, because of its possible implications for the future, but they were running out of time to have it in person. 

“Uhhh, cuz it’s close to the Big Apple, but isn’t that Hell hole?,” Pool responded obnoxiously, with a nervous scratch of his neck. “I know you’re closely affiliated, Petey-pie, but I don’t want live in the Avenger’s banana hammock. NYC was fun back when I was freewheeling and freeballing, but now I’m on everybody’s radar and under everyone’s microscopes. And all the eyeballs are waiting for me to mess up, so that they can, whatever, punish me and send me to the Negative Zone, I guess. All of which makes me twitchy and claustrophobic, and even more likely to spaz out. . . It’s like that week of forced observation in the Tower, except the whole City is Stark’s rat cage. Not to mention that just thinking about Trump makes my skin itch worse than it already does.” 

Peter’s hope shriveled and almost died as Deadpool outlined his reasons for not returning, which were disappointingly reasonable and relatable. Tears prickled behind his eyes and his throat closed painfully, betraying him as he tried to argue his case, “But you’re friends with the Avengers now.”

Deadpool bounded forward suddenly, so that he could turn around and walk backwards, facing Peter. He took a few bouncy steps before he seemed to realize the problem with what he was saying. Slowing to a stop, he leaned into Peter’s face and cupped his face. “Hey. I’m not saying no. Just not right now. . . Like how you want me to stretch your ass full of cock, but aren’t ready? Well, I’m not quite ready for the ongoing shafting that is the NYC experience. . . But, take hope, I’m sure I’ll get sucked back into the vortex sooner or later. I mean, all us superhumans are victims of the Marvel Curse, whereby we constantly end up in New York City no matter how many times we try to leave. Bee tee dubs: have you noticed that y’all managed to have an entire weekend here without dinosaurs or aliens invading? Not even a measly vampire rabbit infestation? That would’ve been a statistical improssibility in New York City proper.” 

“An improssibility, is it? Is that the technical term?” Peter had to tease, struggling to keep his composure. Only a basketcase would despair because their ex wouldn’t move cities for them after a weekend of fucking. He could practically hear Dr. Wakka pointing out the “dysfunction thinking”.

“Whatever, college boy. Improssible means halfway between impossible and improbable. Just cuz it’s never happened before doesn’t mean it won’t ever happen. You should understand, us freaks live in this outlier area.”

“You’re awfully smart some times,” Peter accused affectionately, managing a bittersweet smile. 

Pool’s head tilted down, and Peter recognized the embarrassed posture. “Then would you believe that I’m just, uhhh. . . working on myself right now? Like OCD Jack Nicholson said, “You make me want to be a better man.” Which we all know was code for, you know, I’m totally head over heels for you . . . You deserve a partner that’s not gonna try to off himself or, like, flip his shit when things go south. You deserve someone who can take care of you as much as you’ve taken care of me.” 

The earnest words had clearly been hard to voice, and yet it was one of the healthiest things Peter had ever heard the man say, and the flame of hope bloomed so hot and bright that a couple lonely tears fell anyway. Peter pushed up on his toes to smash their lips together despite the Spandex, hugging Pool so tight he likely imparted vanishing bruises. “You keep doing that,” he murmured into the covered ear, choking up. “Making me fall in love with you more and more.”

“Fuck, baby boy, don’t make me cry. We’re out on the streets and everything.” Even as he said these words, he smoothly pulled off his hood and pushed greedily into Peter’s mouth. Their eyelids drifted shut as Wade’s tongue massaged Peter’s for long, passionate seconds, as they recycled each other’s hot air and grew lightheaded. Finally, Wade withdrew and opened his eyes. “I’ve got a job lined up for most of next week, but I can come down the following Friday.”

Peter wanted to ask about the job; he always did, because he always worried, about what Wade was doing or feeling, whether he was hurting or dying or descending into madness. With effort, he let the opportunity pass and instead focused on the more immediate problem, “That seems like an awfully long time.”

Wade chuckled. “Oh, you’re jonesing bad, baby boy. I’ve got a feeling you’ll be ripe and ready for the picking by the time I get there.”

Peter’s hole clenched pleasantly at the suggestion, and he strongly suspected that Wade was right. Even now, his body ached to be taken and possessed, to be claimed as thoroughly and completely as he’d claimed all of Wade’s eccentric pieces. He just had to let go of the fear and the guilt, the doubt and the paranoia. For now though, he took the soft mask out of Wade’s hand and eased it down over the beloved face like a caress. 

They stopped by the Museum to pick up Peter’s checked duffle bag, then parted ways at the taxi stand outside. Peter insisted on a brief hug, so Pool took advantage of the proximity to cop a generous feel and murmur, “Twelve days. I’m gonna have frequent, long, and detailed fantasies about your delectable ass. I may even write a dirty limerick, who knows?”

Peter squirmed in arousal and embarrassment, so he got his revenge by murmuring right back, “And I’ll be able to imagine that perfectly, after I magnify all my beautiful close ups of you abusing yourself.”

“Ooo, such a naughty little Chihuahua,” Pool complemented, brushing Spandex lips against Peter’s temple before reluctantly releasing his grip on Peter’s butt cheeks, smoothing them down gently before finally backing off entirely. Peter just smiled at him kindly, and he could imagine the shy grin that Wade probably wore under his mask. Then he got in the taxi and gave a sad, little wave as the vehicle pulled away from the curb. As he lost sight of the colorful man, the cloudy day seemed a little duller and grayer.

The airport was going to be a nightmare, with nothing waiting for Peter at home. This time Clint wanted Bucky to advocate for himself, conducting his own shower of official paperwork all over the hapless TSA staff. Given that they were actually trying to enter the country instead of leave, he could only imagine that the security vetting would be even more extensive. Oh joy.

! ~_~ !

It felt like coming back from a foreign country, one much farther away and more exotic than the border of Canada. How could everything be so drab, and dull, and the same, when his life had made such a dramatic turnaround? Peter wanted to mope, but he knew better than to indulge that vice. As much as it seemed like his life was on pause without Wade, it most surely wasn’t. There was too much work to do, and crime to stop, which was how he preferred it. If it left precious little time or energy for his own thoughts, then that was for the best too – since all he ever thought about was Wade in some form or another: what he was up to at that moment, or all the little things that had made their weekend together perfect, or how their next visit might go. When he let it, Peter felt Wade’s absence so acutely that it hurt, and there was nothing to do but keep busy with anything and everything else. 

On Monday, Stark dropped by the lab to chat, hauling up on a desk to sit. At first Peter thought he was angling for a debriefing on Bucky, but after a couple minutes it became clear that he’d already heard the overview from someone who actually lived at the Tower, and was more interested in fishing for gossip. 

“So. . . you and Wilson. You back on that crazy train?”

Peter shrugged, looking down at the pipette he was fiddling with. He still didn’t particularly want to discuss his relationship with Tony, but at this point it felt like the older man had invested a lot in him, despite their initial disagreement over Deadpool. He deserved a least an overview of the current situation. 

“We haven’t explicitly defined anything,” Peter answered carefully. “But it was a good weekend, and he’s gonna come visit at the end of next week.” 

“I’ll spare you the multiple dirty sex jokes that I’m tempted to insert here, and suggest instead that you throw a party.”

Peter’s eyes shot up to Tony’s in surprise. “No way! My place is tiny.”

“You could throw it at the Tower,” Tony offered calmly, having clearly already given this some thought. 

“He kinda hates the Tower since we kept him confined here for six days. I think it turned him off the whole city.” Not to mention the Avengers. 

Tony shrugged, palms up and out front. “Well, maybe we can change that. The two birdbrains made a good case for a welcoming party, but this is up to you as far as I’m concerned. No skin off my back either way.” 

That made Peter stop to think. The two birdbrains, Sam and Clint, had had their own gossip session with him on the plane, during which Peter had vaguely conceded to overnight successes and then been quizzed extensively on the most obvious dilemma – how to get Pool back to New York. Clint had several crisis scenarios that he proposed to instigate, but no decisions had been reached, at least not in his presence. Though now that he was considering it, maybe a party was a good idea. Deadpool adored parties, and there was a decent chance he’d never had one thrown for him his whole life. He’d responded well to the impromptu “road trip”, and if everyone played their cards right, maybe Pool would indeed feel more welcome in New York. Though it still seemed a little odd coming from Stark. 

“Okay, so maybe he’d get a kick out of a party. Just. . . are you sure you want to do this? Cuz, I mean, if you change your mind or something, you could easily turn a party into the kind of public humiliation that drives some to blow their brains out. Repeatedly.”

Tony looked hurt and offended by that, sliding off the desk to stand. “I’m sorry you think so poorly of me. I know I haven’t always been rooting for you two, but I am trying to give him a chance. JARVIS has spent months monitoring Deadpool’s movements. He’s proven himself capable of sustained rational behavior, even under duress.”

Peter gaped a little at the other man. “By what definition? Didn’t he, like, slaughter ISIS and cross the Sahara on foot?”

“Those were both intentional choices, justified in their own ways. He also intentionally threw himself to his death once, and accidently crashed a couple wingsuits into the sides of mountains, all with deliberate forethought. But when compared to previous data points, the last five months have indicated a remarkable level of stability and control. Except for the obvious outlier incident, his behavior and, dare I say, his mental health, has done nothing but improve for the last year. I wouldn’t be a genius if I could ignore evidence like that.”

That outlier was pretty bad, Peter thought, remembering Dragonpool slashing and burning rebels in Colombia, but he didn’t mention it. The Why behind that incident was pretty obvious, and only fed into Tony’s argument: Deadpool was less dangerous, to himself and others, because of his relationship with Peter. Peter even agreed, but it was still weird to be having this conversation with Stark. “Not too long ago, you were more worried about Wade’s influence on me.”

Tony shrugged, turning for the door. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen the sad-ass workaholic that’s been in my employ these last months. I liked you better when you were dating the psychopath. More pizzazz!”

“Gee, thanks!” Peter called sarcastically. 

“We’re on for the party!” Tony hollered back. Peter was okay with that, he decided, as he intended to be on DP duty no matter what they did that evening. 

Tuesday was much the same, again faced with a long day of impersonal toil, interrupted this time by therapy instead of a nosy boss. 

“So. Don’t leave me in suspense. How’d it go?”

Dr. Wakka sounded a bit too much like Stark, which brought a little scowl to Peter’s brow. “Great. We, uh, reconnected like the old days. He’s coming to visit next week.”

Peter tried to end there, but his good shrink continued to watch him with wizened owl eyes until he had to clarify the details. “I was able to. . . perform. Under very specific circumstances.”

“You mean, with the love of your life?” Dr. Wakka provoked. It frustrated Peter that she always tried to simplify things so, it wasn’t that simple! 

“Yes. But also while the love of my life was seriously compromised,” Peter tried to explain. His voiced dipped then, as if revealing a shameful secret, “Like, indulging in altered personalities compromised.” 

Dr. Wakka was silent for a detached beat before asking seriously, “Is that a bad thing in his case?”

Peter had no idea, even as his gut cried Yes! He tried to sort through the evidence logically, but it all just looked like a big fat mess. “Maybe. I dunno.”

The kindly older woman waited a long time for a better response before giving up. “Maybe the question you need to ask yourself is: do people with profound mental illnesses have the capacity to make fully consensual sexual decisions?”

Phrased so impersonally, the answer was more obvious. “Largely irrelevant if they’re having sex anyway. Denying them that right to decide would be more dehumanizing.”

Dr. Wakka looked at him expectantly. “And so you have an answer to your own dilemma.”

Again, how could she make it so simple? Everything was so muddled! “I keep thinking how lucky he is that it was me,” Peter rasps guiltily. “Cuz he’d let me do anything, and a worse person would’ve taken advantage of that. He’s let others –”

But Dr. Wakka was shaking her head, quicker to respond that usual, “This argument sounds familiar. Isn’t this why you decided to end your relationship the first time?”

The question was a veritable douse of cold water, all the chillier for being true. After Octopeter had ravaged Wade, Peter had dumped him because he couldn’t trust the other man to protect himself. Now, months later, they both seemed so much stronger, and yet he was still afraid of the same thing. 

“Maybe you’re thinking about this the wrong way,” the doctor speculated. “He clearly seeks connection, and believes that he’s found it in you. As long as you maintain a healthy relationship with him, no one else will be able to take advantage of him.”

“Do you. . . think I’m capable of that?” Peter asked hesitantly, lingering on all the times he had gotten off doing perverted things to and with Wade. Cross dressing, S&M, bondage, sex toys, role play, rimming, and so SO much glorious sodomy. 

Dr. Wakka reached forward across the aisle to take Peter’s hand. “Of course you are, Peter. The fact that you’re so worried about this is evidence enough. We’ve been talking about consent and communication in these sessions for months now. It’s time to go use what you’ve learned. Love him right or let him go.”

“Love him right,” Peter answered immediately, which was a response that basically spoke for itself. Though a beat later he murmured stubbornly, “Still not that simple.”

And so the days passed in a blur of classrooms and laboratories, interspersed with the rare idle chitchat and even rarer personal conversation. Nights were better than the days, when he could at least be Spiderman. He still found joy in swinging through the City, and satisfaction in helping people. If anything, his patrols felt more alive and energetic than they had in ages, as though Spiderman had reanimated with a new gust of energy. Despite his restless impatience, his anxieties and doubts, his body felt confident and optimistic, and it came through when he let his reflexes take over. He swung from building to building, flipping and arching and free falling, falling , faaalling until the ground was right there –

Then jerking away on a last-second webline. It was exhilarating, and almost a shame that he was inevitably interrupted by the sound of conflict and distress. But then nothing was as satisfying as putting some abusive asshole in his place, and Spidey savored it just that bit more for being able to brag about it later to Pool. Those early mornings after patrol were the highlight of several days, spent texting Wade and looking at his pictures from Toronto. He found himself quite caught up on the ones from the museum, with Deadpool being his flamboyant self and them looking so happy. 

After fifteen minutes or so, the texting would turn to sexting, Peter would wank for a while before eventually clicking to the nuddie picks on his phone and finishing himself off. It felt naughty and titillating to see Wade so vulnerable and exposed, both physically and psychologically, like it was something forbidden to look upon. Peter couldn’t help but fixate on his enigmatic expression: the tightly shut eyes, suggesting effort, and the barely parted lips, indicating pleasure; the submissive tilt of his chin, baring his neck; laugh and worry lines and expressive wrinkles that merged with the scarring that decorated his face. Shit! Peter wanted to climb into that picture, seat himself fully on Wade’s pillar of cock, and trace every inch of Wade’s face and chest with lips. So after his inevitably greedy climax, he’d make of point of typing out exact details of his ejaculation: which picture he’d been looking at, what he’d been imagining, where and how he’d been touching himself. 

By the time the weekend rolled around, the last thing he wanted was even the modicum of downtime it provided. He went into the lab on Saturday just to keep busy, and then spent the afternoon finishing all the school work that had been assigned. Dinner at Aunt May’s was a welcome way to fill the time, though she was no diversion at all, given that she was primarily interested in the same topic everyone was, including himself. Still, Peter was more comfortable talking to her about Wade than anyone else, including Dr. Wakka. May only had a fraction of the full picture, but with her it was easy to pretend that things weren’t as complicated and painful as they were; that he and Wade were just two ordinary men experiencing the normal ups and downs of young love. 

The plate of chicken fettuccini and a bottle of wine between them also helped. 

“I just can’t get over how good he looked!” Peter gushed. “Like he was doing well, I mean. Like his head was in the right place. He was taking care of himself, and his apartment, and getting to know people. He was more confident and centered and, and. . .”

Peter trailed off with a flush and May took up where he left off. “I’m glad to hear that, Peter. You know I’ve always liked Wade, and he’s obviously completely smitten by you. But I have wondered sometimes if perhaps you’d bitten off more than you could chew with that one.”

In a sign of how badly he had sex on the brain, Peter’s mind immediately flashed to him choking himself on Wade’s massive manhood, which he still found hot as Hell. “Well, he’s still a handful,” (of cock), Peter swallowed around his own tipsy, horny amusement. “I doubt that’ll ever change.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” May smirked before becoming serious again. “Wade obviously comes with a lot of baggage, but I’m not so naïve not realize how much you like challenges. I just worry sometimes that you won’t be able to accept the things that can’t be changed, about either of you. Mental illness can be managed, not cured.”

“I know that, and I don’t want to change him,” Peter denied reflexively, even as he knew the words to be untrue. He’d spent months trying to tame Wade like a wild animal, to break him in and housetrain him, and make him fit in a little better all around. So he took a page out of Dr. Wakka’s book and reframed the issue, “I just want him to be the happiest he can be. The best him he can be.”

“And does he help you be the best you can be?” his aunt asked earnestly. “He’s not the only one that struggles.”

“I think so,” Peter replied honestly. “He makes me happy, and he makes it easy to feel confident. It’s hard to be objective about anything else, when he helps me feel good about myself.”

May smiled lovingly at him, reaching across the table to squeeze his fingers. “Oh, Peter. I’m so glad to hear you say that. You should feel good about yourself, you’re a strong, intelligent, amazing man. Of course I want you two boys to find happiness together. Just take care with each other this time, you don’t need to be breaking each other’s hearts again. You’re both so sensitive.”

Peter wanted to deny her last statement, but whether it was true or not in general, it was undeniably true when it came to Wade. He made Peter feel incredibly sensitive, emotionally and physically. He had planned to leave for patrol from his aunt’s place, but called it off because he was both tipsy and faintly aroused. At home he stripped out of his clothes and lay on the bed completely naked, knees bent and spread as he sent off an impatient text. ((Been tryin not to think of u all day. Got hard on train anyway))

Only a dozen seconds passed before the reply, ((Happens to me all the time))

Peter typed with one hand as he pulled and fondled his balls with the other. ((What u doin?))

((Meeting contact @ club. U?)) There was an attached picture of Deadpool, in full leather combat suit, surrounded by blue lights, vapor smoke, and a sea of dancing bodies. He stood out like the most dangerous toy in the triple X shop. Without much thought, Peter’s hand dropped down to press against his clenched, dry pucker, making his cock throb. 

((Jerking off, touching my hole))

His body felt like it was craving Wade, his ass specifically aching to be stretched open and crammed full and possessed thoroughly. It made him wish he had a dildo, a cucumber, whatevever, anything to shove up there, as long it was big and demanding enough to satisfy this twitchy, restless desire. As tempting as his fingers felt rubbing his rim, he was also reluctant to indulge in such a disappointingly meager substitute. 

((U killing me here. Lemme see))

It was fair play at this point, so Peter purposely didn’t think about what he was about to do. Flushing and leaking precum, he lowered the phone between his legs to snap a pic, while he used his other hand to part his cheeks for better viewing. As he tapped his screen to send the picture to Pool, he was treated to a close up of his furled guardian ring, framed by pale cheeks and a dusting of soft hair. It was embarrassing, and yet not embarrassing enough. He’d let himself grow tense and tight with stress and inactivity, and now would require almost as much prep and stretching as the first time. He wanted to look like he felt, the way Wade’s hole looked after being worked over long and hard: gaping widely around the nothingness, lonely and grasping for company, gasping on too much air and nowhere near enough cock. Peter moaned and squirmed at the thought as he tapped Send.

Only a few seconds later he got a response that had him smirking, cuz of course perverted minds think alike. ((Hurts just thinkin of stuffing jr n there. U better start stretching regime or u won’t b able to claim ur prize n 6 days))

Head spinning a little with lust and heat, Peter dropped the phone on the bed to scramble for the lube in his bed stand, where it had been sitting untouched since he’d moved in. While rooting around for his prostate had felt too pathetic to be a tempting way to get off, the idea of methodically working himself open enough to accommodate Wade’s giant cock, to be ready for and deserving of that cock – well, that was a horse of a different color. Cuz Wade was right. If Peter wanted to avoid the seductive pain of being overstretched by Wade’s substantial length and generous girth, then he’d need to work himself up to spreading that wide. 

((U know nothing turns me on more than threat of hard work)) Peter chuckled as he squirted some lube onto his fingers.

((I’ve noticed. Gotta work myself, mark’s here)) 

“Mark? You said contact before,” Peter grumbled, even as he dropped the phone and lay back on his single bed. He gave his dick a few strokes before lifting a knee up and out for better access, then reached behind his leg to touch his back entrance. The muscle clenched reflexively, and the lube felt cold against the hot, wrinkled skin. A second later, his middle finger slipped into his body, only to be stopped by a tight grip at the big knuckle. A thrill ran down his spine, and a jolt through his cock, at the thought of all the work he had to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Specific warnings: Sex while in an altered state, complicated consent, and potentially disturbing themes. Daddy Kink if you squint, as it is categorically Not My Thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic kinky sex (personally one of my favorites).

Mr. Nakamura had proven a most worthy adversary! His sophisticated network of associates had forced Deadpool to do a lot of legwork in Vancouver, sent him on a on a merry chase [shooting spree] through Seattle, and finally lead him to Portland. There he triggered a Final Show Down between himself and the shifty crime boss, in the traditional setting: down by the docks, on a rooftop of one of the many warehouses. Only when finally cornered, like a snake, did Nakamura pull his own katanas from Stan Lee only knows where. What then commenced was a fast-paced ninja fight, rapid jabbing, spinning, and slicing that challenged Pool even as he mocked the hopelessness of his opponent’s struggle. The clash culminated in Nakamura impaling Deadpool through the stomach, dramatically and victoriously, only for Pool to twist with unnatural disregard for his own injuries, decapitating the other man with a vengeful swing of his arm. The agony was excruciating as he pulled the sword through his abdomen, steady and slow to minimize the damage, but it was easy to disassociate from his body’s suffering. His thoughts lingered instead on Peter; beautiful, clever, sexy, messed up Peter, who loved him and would blindly waste his young life on a damaged immortal. 

Overall, Deadpool considered it a successful mission. The international baddie had been terminated, the hefty fee had been collected cleanly, and there had only been a minimal loss of life, in alinement with Spidey’s exacting standards. Nakamura of course had died, but also a guard who’d leapt from the balcony rather than confront the terrifying, sword-wielding mercenary. Pool was disinclined to take credit for the second one, as it had earned him no points in Video Game mode, but Spidey would probably disagree. Spidey, Spidey, Spidey. He’d been glad for the distraction of the mission, as he’d’ve had a Hell of a time mulling around Toronto with Spidey on the brain. He might’ve been driven to do something impulsive. Unlike ordering the moderately-sized red dildo shipped to Peter Parker’s Brooklyn address, a decision which had been deliberate and well thought out. Peter would need something bigger than fingers to get ready for what Pool was packing; which is exactly what he was imagining as he lay in his bed at exactly 3:23 AM on Friday morning. 

[Heh. Heh heh. We’re gonna tear that ass UP.]

[[Nooo, that’s exactly what we’re not gonna do, remember? Peter will back out entirely if we scare him. SO DON’T SCARE HIM. He doesn’t trust himself not to turn Us into Stark Tower all over again.]] 

[Right, right! . . . So, uhhh, why is this an issue again? If he doesn’t want to indulge in pain play, then we don’t let him. If he’s afraid of what he wants when he lets go, then WE will take that control. Show him that he can have what he wants without anyone getting hurt.]

Wade’s hand picked up speed at the thought, til he was fully throttling his swollen cock.

[[I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but that is kinda genius. If he trusts us enough.]]

“Spidey trusts us,” Wade growled, channeling Whitey as he flitted through memories of Peter showing complete trust in him – with his hot, flexible bod of course, but also with his heart, his mind, and his very life. Times that he’d fought with Pool at his back, or professed his voluminous love; times he’d allowed himself to be restrained and fucked til he was insensate. “Fuuuuck!”

By noon, Wade forced himself to end his morning of lazy self-abuse. He needed to get ready to go, and if he masturbated much more, he might be less than one hundred percent tonight. He spent most of the train ride literally debating with himself about the importance of pretending not to be sex-obsessed, and whether Peter would even believe such a premise. As Yellow pointed out, they could put on a show if they had to, though as Whitey had also pointed out, all they really wanted to do right now was have orgasms with Spidey. 

So when the taxi dropped him off at Peter’s apartment, and Peter answered his door in just a shirt and pajama pants, Deadpool grinned wolfishly as he bounced on his toes. “Petey! I’m so glad we’re on the same page! Like my easy access civvies?”

Peter’s own smile was pretty wide, despite the attractive flush traveling up his neck to his cheeks, and he reached forward to grab Pool’s hoodie and pull him through the doorway. 

[Wheee! Here we come!]

“I did make dinner at least,” Peter managed before the large man was on him. Dropping his duffle bag, Pool quickly enfolded Peter in a hug that felt more like a pat down, and ended with Pool wrapping a large hand around each of Peter’s thighs and hoisting him up off his feet. Peter squawked but then immediately wrapped his arms and legs around Pool’s shoulders and hips, then Pool was spinning them around so he could press Peter’s back up against the door and slowly grind their semis together. Face pressed into the long, soft neck, Pool hummed in bone deep satisfaction. He could stay here for the rest of eternity.

[Um. But . . . Spidey said something about dinner. Train food blows, I’m fucking hungry.]

[[Agreed, dinner first. Most of Whitey’s designs require an awkward conversation beforehand.]]

[I like it when we work together!]

[[Don’t get too used to it, cretin.]]

A few long seconds later he felt fingers on the back of head, and then Peter carefully pulled his mask off. A couple heartbeats of shy eye contact was all either could handle, and then they were kissing, kissing, kissing until they finally had to break. 

“I’ve already cum six times today, thinking about you, including once on the train,” Wade confessed compulsively, nuzzling Peter’s earlobe. “But I could suck you off before dinner, if you want.”

[Or we could service you, invisible and ignored under the table, while you eat; make you feel powerful and in control before we convince you to give that all power and control to us.] 

Peter’s cock pressed harder into Wade, eyes closed as his head tilted back against the wall; all very seductive, even his raspy words, “I’ve already cum twice myself. As I’d rather save my energy for after dinner.” 

Wade reluctantly let go of one thigh, letting it drop to the ground, and then the other, but without stepping back, Wade still had Peter sandwiched between himself and wall. Warm and dark in the protected space between their faces, they were able to maintain an intimate, thrilling eye contact. Wade rarely offered the words first, stricken by vulnerability at the very possibility, but as the emotion swelled to uncontainable levels, Wade had to profess roughly before their bodies parted, “I adore you, Peter Parker.” 

Peter’s hands found Wade’s gloved fingers and squeezed them, while he offered a gentle smile. “I adore you too, Wade Wilson.”

[[I adore you more; no I adore YOU more. I love you all the way to the moon; ooo, that is far, said big Nutbrown Hare.]]

[To infinity, and beyond!]

Wade smirked as he backed up a fraction. “Good. Now show me this food you spoke of.”

Peter smized as he slipped from the available space, then led the short way to the dining nook. “Aunt May showed me how to make these. I wanted to make Chimichangas, but I’ve never deep fried anything in my life.”

Wade followed, close enough to practically be looming. Then, “Baby boy! Are those enchiladas?! Gimme gimme!”

[If God struck us down while deep throating a fat enchilada, we’d die a happy man!]

Wade descended on the food with his usual vigor, helping himself to portion after portion until, with Peter’s help, the pan was empty. It wasn’t the best Mexican he’d ever had, but Wade rarely made relative value judgements on food. It was cheesy and filling and the large volume left him sated and temporarily lazy, which was all good in his book.

“Oof! Good thing you didn’t make more, or I’d eat myself into a food coma,” Wade proclaimed with satisfaction, leaning back in the chair and rubbing his stomach. “And I got plans for tonight. For, uh, later tonight.”

Peter smiled in amusement. “Good thing your metabolism is gonna make quick work of that food baby, cuz I’m definitely not ready for prego sex with my male lover.”

[SPIDEY!!! You’ve come up with a fantasy that has never even crossed my mind! . . . Your sexual training is complete.]

Wade took a second to imagine it. He’d wear his soft mask, as he often did in his own fantasies, but otherwise naked, displaying muscular pecs and a distended belly equally as he rode Peter’s hard cock – that perfect prick that had planted new life inside Wade. Peter, despite his protests, would be a doting future father, rubbing Deadpool’s swollen abdomen as he eagerly sated his expectant mother’s hormonal needs. 

[Oh fuck, our hole would be so wet!]

“I dunno,” Wade smirked mischievously. “Sounds hot to me.”

Peter rolled his eyes as he suppressed his own grin. “Everything sounds hot to you. There better not be something you’re not telling me. I’ve seen way too much weirdness since I became Spiderman. Male pregnancy sounds frighteningly possible.”

Wade had to chuckle. “Don’t worry your overly responsible head. Between the cancer and serum, I’m pretty sure this body ain’t gonna be making any more babies.”

[[Thank fuck. Whitey might think the idea is hot, but we all know what kind of disaster we would be as a parent: the kind that ends with the child dead or forcibly pried from our custody.]]

Peter sobered at his words, expression suddenly pensive, so Wade allowed his smile to fade as he considered what serious thoughts the younger man might be having. His full stomach clenched painfully a moment later, making him faintly queasy. “Do you. . . want kids?”

[[Cuz that could really throw a spanner into the relationship. Or, like, a crowbar, wrenching us apart.]] 

“Honestly, I dunno. I like kids well enough, but I definitely don’t want one now, or anytime soon. Any child of mine would be at extreme risk, just by association, and that’s a terrifying thought. I’d have to be in a pretty different place to want a child in my life.” 

“You’d have to be in a pretty different place to be ABLE to have a child into your life,” Wade echoed pointedly, with a nonchalance that he didn’t feel. Shouldn’t they have had this relationship-ending conversation before they’d gotten this far?

[[There was very little reason to think this thing with Peter would last long enough for it to be an issue.]]

Peter fidgeted with his fork briefly as he answered, “I get what you’re saying. . . But I’m committed to us, Wade, I really am. I don’t know how I’ll feel about kids a decade from now, but I’d like to think it’s something we can explore together when the time is right. If it’s not meant to be, then that’s life too. I’m not the first person whose lifestyle choices precluded reproduction. Frankly, you’re so important to me, so critical to my happiness, that I can’t imagine raising a kid without you. . . And I still want to meet Ellie, by the way, sometime when dinosaurs aren’t tearing up Central Park.”

Wade just stared stupidly and wondering at Peter, blown away by such a practical love confession. Flowery language and vague promises were one thing, but conceding acceptable sacrifices was something much more concrete. It made Wade’s pulse pound and his skin feel warm, and he felt an overwhelming need to make his own sacrifice for Peter, if only to display the extent of his own commitment.

[Let us crack open our ribcage and rip out our still beating heart, Spidey! It’s our blood-soaked gift to you! Take all our squishy organs, they’re yours anyway!]

[[Stop with the gory drivel, numbskull. Practical, remember?]]

Wade cleared his throat, thinking quick. “Of course, you can meet Ellie. Anything you want. I can even, uh, move to New York. Like a-sap. I know I was resistant last time we talked about it, but I should stop being so difficult and self-centered all the time.”

“It’s not an exchange, Wade,” Peter smiled gently, getting up to clear the table. “And, frankly, I’ve been the more difficult and self-centered one lately. If and when you move back, I want it to be when you’re ready. I can wait.”

[[We love and adore you, Peter. Not since Mom has anyone ever been so decent to us.]]

[Let us show you how you make us feel! Like, right now, before our fucking heart spews tears, snot, and girly feels all over the place.]

“Speaking of being ready. . .,” Wade hinted as he got to his feet, moving to stand behind Peter at the sink, resting a chin on the younger man’s shoulder and his hands on those thin hips. “How’d you like the present I sent you?”

Peter squirmed around in Wade’s embrace so that they faced each other. He looked embarrassed, but not in an unhappy way, and he offered a shy smile. “Definitely better than fingers, but it doesn’t have the magic of Ol’ Reliable.” 

“Not much does,” Wade returned, lips curled into a predatory grin. “Wanna see a magic trick? I bet I can make him disappear entirely.”

Peter rolled his eyes and they both tried not to laugh but ended up chuckling anyway. “Let’s talk about that.”

Peter took Wade’s hand and led him all of ten feet to the couch. The apartment was small, if still slightly larger than the box Peter’d been living in when they’d first met. If/when they moved in together, it definitely wouldn’t be into this place. The couch was small, ugly, and clearly well used, despite the fact that Peter had never owned one before. Wade let Peter push him to sit and then made grabby motions with his fingers until Peter climbed into his lap, knees on either of Wade’s hips. He made to lower his ass just as Wade’s palms moved to each cradle a delectable globe. Peter closed his eyes and groaned faintly as Wade massaged his glutes, squeezing and parting the sensitive flesh where it was barely covered by the thin pajama pants. The expression on Peter’s sharp, attractive features displayed how much he appreciated the attention and Wade felt a surge of impatience.

[I want I want I want! Lemme lemme lemme! Mine mine mine!]

“Fuck, baby boy, I want inside you so bad. Lay down the law so I can get inside your pants stat. . .” Then Wade just had to give voice to the music singing through his veins, crooning, “♪♬ Anything you want, you got it. Anything you need, you got it. Anything at all, you got it. Baaa-byyy. ♪♬”

Peter’s body had swayed beautifully in sync with Wade’s, but as the singing ended, he stiffened noticeably and then opened his eyes again, this time looking more uncertain. “I, I. . .”

Peter’s lost expression transformed abruptly into ugly misery before it was hidden in Wade’s shoulder. He gripped Wade’s shoulders painfully tight before finally managing muffled words, “God, Wade, that’s half the problem. I don’t want to lay down the law. I want you to take this confusing, awful decision out of my hands. To just take me and do your worst. . . But how can I still want that? After everything that had happened; after raping you, however it happened; after making you participate in, in. . .” Peter pulled back an inch, not enough to see his face, but enough to feel rough breath on his neck instead of skin. “In rough sex that, let’s be honest, blurred the lines of consent. After all that and more, how can I still crave that darkness? What is wrong with me?”

[[Dunno. But I thank a nonexistent God daily for whatever character dents let you love us, and be with us.]]

Peter sniffed, and Wade’s hands moved up to comfortingly stroke his back. Peter’s discomfort with the darker desires of his sexuality was nothing new, so it wasn’t much of a surprise to see it remerge in the wake of all the trauma. When Wade felt a tear land on his chest, he forced himself past his own turmoil to soothe, “Nothing is wrong with you, Peter. Whatever imperfections you have only make you more perfect for me. If anything, it’s a good sign. That you’re still yourself, and that Octopussy hasn’t affected you as completely as you feared.”

Then Peter leaned back enough for Wade to see his flushed, humiliated expression, and downcast eyes. Peter bit his lip for a second and then questioned hoarsely, “So, what? I’ll always want to be hurt and fucked and treated like a cheap whore? Punished for – I don’t even know anymore. For never being able to save everyone? For never being good enough? That’s what it feels like.” 

[[DON’T FUCK THIS UP! Remember the long game!]]

It hurt viscerally to see Peter in such pain, right in the center of Wade’s chest and stabbing deep. He hated that it was their sex life that was causing such turmoil, though he would’ve hated anything that hurt Peter. After a heavy pause in which Wade considered the right way to say what he wanted to say, he answered cautiously, “You said once that it wasn’t the pain that got you off, but me having my perverted way with you. Do you remember that?”

Still refusing to meet Wade’s eyes, Peter nodded. Wade watched Peter’s face closely as he moved one hand up to the stretchy waistband of Peter’s pants, and then slowly slid his fingers under it, until his fingertips rested on the warm, fleshy swell of Peter’s buttocks. “I’ve never wanted to hurt you, Peter. If you trust me, I’ll take the control that’s making it so hard for you to choose. And I can do it without hurting either of us.” 

“Oh yeah?” Peter prompted breathlessly, sounding pathetically hopeful. The hint of desperation was more of a turn on even than the faint feel muscles twitching and firing under his hands, as Peter fought to hold still against his body’s urges. 

[He wants this so much he practically needs it. Just think of all the dirty, nasty things he’ll let us do to him now. I want to see how many different household item’s he’ll let us slide in and out of his greedy hole!]

[[Or we could, say, STICK TO THE MOTHERFUCKING PLAN! You helped make it, brainrot!]]

[Sorry, sorry! My bad, I remember now!]

“Is that a yes? Or do we need to keep talking?” Wade inquired dutifully, even as his thick middle digit inched into Peter’s cleft. 

“God!” Peter cried suddenly, bucking back into Wade’s touch even his trembling grew more pronounced. Wade’s finger dipped further until it rested gently against Peter’s tensely closed entrance. “Yes! It’s a yes! Please.”

Wade rubbed the clenched muscle, gently circling around and around, pulsing lightly until Peter’s hips pushed back to the gentle rhythm. The situation was dangerously tight and dry, but it was still fun to tease. “If I hadn’t seen the photographic evidence, I wouldn’t believe this frigid little thing could take even one of my fingers.”

Peter took a measured, steadying breath, and clearly tried to relax a little, but all Wade felt was a faint grasp on his finger, as Peter’s rim fluttered just enough to kiss the sensitive tip. Weak though the connection was, Wade used it to dexterously circle and pull at the tense rim. 

“Shit, Wade, that feels amazing,” Peter moaned. “I want you so bad.”

[We’re SO gonna tear his ass up.]

[[Don’t start with this shit again. Eyes on the target!]]

Wade reluctantly detangled his hands from Peter’s ass and placed them possessively on narrow hips. “This is the last time I’m going to give you an out without safe wording, okay?”

Peter nodded, and there was no need to acknowledge the only safe word either had ever had, so Wade continued, “Then if you want to do this my way, go to the bedroom, strip, and lube up. Show me what your week of self-exploration has taught you, I want you to be able to fit at least three fingers in without discomfort. Knock on the door when you’re ready.”

“Yes, sir!” Peter sassed, giving Wade a last, smoldering look as he dismounted, and then strutted away as Wade watched with interest and anticipation. 

[I WAAANT! I gotta get all up in that ass!]

“Hold your horses, for fuck’s sake,” Wade mumbled to himself, forcing himself to turn away from the now closed bedroom door. As Whitey fixated on images of what Peter was doing just a room away, Wade went for his duffle bag, quickly digging out a deflated sex doll. A couple minutes of vigorous puffing resulted in a human-shaped inflatable, to which Wade attached a largish silicone cock, then covered with his own soft mask. Finally, he took off his own combat boots and tied them to its feet, so that when he propped the Deadpool dummy on the ugly couch, it stayed balanced on the edge with weighted feet on the ground. Wade eyed the setup with anticipation when the meta-vertigo suddenly struck –

The irony, the imagery, the metaphor! What was Wade, really, but a blow up sex doll, a humanoid context for a hard dick, and a ridiculous mask that hid none of these facts? 

[Stop! I’m melting, melting! What a world, what a world!]

[[We’re not in Kansas anymore, fuckface! It’s an out-of-body hallucination!]]

“Shut up, both you idiots!” Wade hissed with annoyance, whacking himself lightly on the forehead. “It’s almost game time, so no spazzing out. We’re gonna pull up our big girl panties and do this together. For Peter. We got this.”

He needed something to keep him focused and occupied while he waited for Peter, so he grabbed a sharpie and drew some scars and marks on the doll’s arms, legs, and torso. A couple minutes later, Peter gave two quick knocks. Still dressed except for his boots and mask, Wade stalked towards the door, cracking his neck as he might do before a particularly challenging bout. He stopped and took a couple deep breathes before calmly opening the door to all that awaited beyond. Peter of course was breathtaking to behold, standing tall and straight and proud despite his nudity, while his face tilted down submissively, but not so much that Wade couldn’t see his attentive expression or easily meet his hopeful gaze. His hand loosely held his erect cock, but didn’t move.

[Mine!]

“I’m gonna say something,” Wade began levelly. “And I don’t want you to respond. In fact, I don’t really want you to talk at all until I tell you. I think we’ve heard quite enough from you. Nod if you understand.” 

Wade watched his Adam’s apple bob as Peter swallowed, then gave a little nod. Whitey wanted to touch, so Wade reached up with one hand, wrapping large fingers around Peter’s long neck, gently thumbing at the hard flesh of his voice box. 

“Good,” Wade praised absently, more focused on his next words, his inspection traveling up to Peter’s bit lower lip. “Cuz we know all about what you think and feel, but what about me? I THINK. . . that the worst thing Doc Ock did to me was bring a third person into my relationship with you. Literally of course, but even after that fucker offed himself, he was still between us, and I still didn’t have you back.” 

Wade’s fingers released the swan’s neck and lightly traced down to the slight swell of his pecs, gentle like Peter had taught him to be. “Not really. Between the depression and the guilt and the punishment, how could I compete? And that’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t need to hear your two cents on the matter.” His hand dipped lower, wrists bending as his calloused fingertips dragged across a sexy little nipple, making it harden visibly. “We of all people understand the appeal of the inner life.”

Peter’s lips had parted slightly in arousal, but his eyes also watched Wade with an avid curiosity that prompted Wade to raise his other hand so that he could carefully pinch each fragile nipple into a secure grip. Peter inhaled sharply but didn’t say anything, so Wade shifted backwards, delicately guiding Peter to follow him. He let a sharp edge shade his next words with menace, “But my Crazy doesn’t ignore you, and yours would do well not to ignore me. I don’t like sharing, Peter. Not your attention or your affection, and certainly your hot, young bod. The only way I can tolerate a third person in our relationship is completely on my terms.”

They’d taken several steps closer to the couch, so Wade released Peter’s tented nipples, stepping aside for the big reveal –

“What the Hell?” Peter muttered, stepping closer to the bizarre, masked stranger on the couch.

[[Shouldn’t’ve drawn all the scars with black ink. He looks like a toddler’s scribble masterpiece.]]

“If you want to keep gabbing,” Whitey hissed harshly and immediately into Peter’s ear. “Then by all means, let’s end this now.” Possessive fingers came to rest at the base of Peter’s spine, right at the top of his crack.

Peter froze for a beat, and then shook his head, so Wade continued more calmly, “Good. For the rest of this scene, remember to keep your fucking college-bred, genius thoughts to yourself.”

[Crack that whip!]

Wade traced a hand up Peter’s naked spine until he came to his skull, where he took a firm grip on Peter’s thick hair. “Now get on your knees and show Deadpool the fucking respect he deserves.” 

With careful but unyielding strength, Wade directed Peter closer to the dummy, until he was close enough to kneel between the inflated thighs. “A little obedience looks good on you, baby boy.”

Using his free hand, Wade traced his thumb along Peter’s delicious pouty lips. “Unfortunately, I know there’s only one way guaranteed to shut you up, and that’s by finding a better occupation for that slutty mouth hole. So from now on, if you want to punk out, then you’ll have to tap out like the match loser.”

With those words, Wade withdrew his exploring thumb, and used his other hand to firmly push Peter’s head down towards the dummy’s dick. Peter submitted easily enough, forearms bracing against either side of the dummy’s hips as his mouth descended on the modest dildo. Kneeling beside him, Wade continued to guide Peter’s head with one hand, while his free hand moved up to rest on the contour of Peter’s cheek. There he could trace the shape of the cockhead that had slipped past Peter’s lips and was now poking around Peter’s mouth. 

“Do you like that, Deadpool?” Wade asked provocatively. “Peter is an excellent cocksucker. Make sure you get the full performance.”

[[Here you have it, the most meta and psychologically dexterous thing we’ve ever done: synced all our inner personalities so that we can PRETEND to talk to ourselves. Hahaha! Oh, fuck me, haha, we’ve completely lost it!]]

After several seconds, Peter shook Wade’s hand out of his hair and began fellating the doll with his own. The fingers on Peter’s cheek followed the fake cock, wrapping back around Peter’s throat to feel him swallow the entirety of its modest length; Wade’s other hand traced back down Peter’s spine, pausing to press into his sensitive tailbone, and then dovetailed into the crease of Peter’s ass, finding that wet entrance as though guided by a homing beacon. Peter moaned brokenly as he was suddenly penetrated from both sides, the dildo sliding down his throat and the two fingers invading in his back entrance, both gently guiding his body back and forth in a soft swaying motion. 

“Do you feel it, my little Petey puppet? THIS is the rhythm of your possession. A real puppet master is a musician that plucks your strings perfectly, not a hack who can only get his way through mind games. . . See how your body responds to every flicker of my hand? Think whatever you like, but I determine which muscles twitch and when your nerves fire, what pushes into your body, and what slides out; whether or not you can even breathe.” 

Then Wade’s fingers tightened faintly on Peter’s windpipe, triggering a recognizable jolt of fear even as Wade stuffed a third blunt finger into Peter’s slick ass. His ready rim stretched willingly enough, but also gripped Wade greedily; Peter inhaled sharply, only to choke suddenly around the artificial cock. Wade eased him back, feeling the breath flow into his lungs even as his hole spasmed open to further accommodate Wade’s thick fingers. Peter moaned even as he struggled for air, at the mercy of Wade’s every whim.

“Yes, I know you can feel it. That’s the feeling of being owned, of being MINE. This ass here is definitely mine, even when you try to keep it from me,” Wade claimed, pistoning his digits through the dripping, distended rim. “And so is your other fuckhole,” he continued, easing the black dildo back through Peter’s spit soaked lips. “And if u ever grow a pussy,” Wade carefully tucked his pinky finger in with the others and then crammed most of his palm into Peter’s quivering hole, so that he groaned around his gag and his legs trembled violently. “That will be mine too. To fuck and breed like a bitch at a puppy mill, cuz don’t you dare think that I’ll have the cunt in your male pregnancy scene. You’re baby mama material, not me.”

Wade continued to play Peter like an accordion, ringing primal notes from him as he was impaled gracefully from both ends. Whitey held the steering wheel of the monologue, swerving from one twisted fantasy to another. “Look how nicely you dance for me, my baby boy. Someday soon, when I’ve loosened you up good on a daily regime of Ol’ Reliable, I’m gonna make you a real puppet. I’m gonna fit my entire fist into you, so far inside you and so tight that the only way you can move is when I flex my fingers.” 

Wade unfurled his palm then, so that his fingers spread out next to each other, manipulating Peter’s slick passage into a wide slit the width of Wade’s large hand. Then Wade twisted his appendage left and right, watching greedily as Peter’s rim stretched and pulled into different shapes, his free thumb rubbing at that guardian ring, as if hoping it could accommodate more. The possessive penetration elicited a staccato of animalistic sounds from Peter that Wade could feel vibrating through the windpipe he still cradled in his clean hand, interrupted only by the fake cock that continued to slide in and out of Peter’s mouth hole. 

[Almost there, just a little bit more. He’s so far gone, he won’t mind a little pain. Fist the fuck out of that slutty hole, and it’ll be ours forever. Reach inside him and take a piece of Spidey, a piece to have for always!] 

[[EYE ON THE BALL, ASSHOLE! Keep your sick fisting fantasies for later!]]

After long minutes, Wade reluctantly let go of Peter’s throat so that he could more closely follow activities at Peter’s other end, repositioning himself between those beautifully splayed thighs. He brought his free fingers up to fondle Peter’s tight testicles, and the younger man’s entire body seized, clamping down on fingers in his ass as he reflexively pulled off the dildo and gasped. Wade carefully removed most of his large, slippery hand from Peter, who whimpered gutturally between the heavy breathing, and then sagged forward into the dummy’s abdomen. 

Wade reached into the pocket of his sweats and retrieved a packet of lube. He quickly lowered his pants just below his ass and slicked up his cock. Then he grabbed Peter by the hips and pulled his ass closer, forcing the man’s arms and legs to hold his own weight again. 

“You’re mine, and I’m not done with you,” Wade reminded firmly. Using his grip on Peter’s hips, Wade guided his face back to black phallus, so that once again Peter’s head and entire body bobbed to the rhythm of his cocksucking. A few seconds later, Wade rested his own leaking cock right against Peter’s messy hole, throwing off his tempo as he stuttered back into the light pressure. 

“I want you to listen to me, cuz this is very important,” Yellow lectured, as Whitey slowly, slowly, finally, pierced Peter’s pliant body with his huge cock. “I’m gonna fuck you now cuz you’re mine, and use you in every way conceivable, just because I can, and I will touch every inch of you, inside and out, so there is no question who you belong to. You’re mine, and I’ll do whatever I want with you.”

After a few inches of slow penetration, Wade’s hands shifted further back to pry Peter’s slippery cheeks apart and encourage further accommodation. Sure enough, another couple inches abruptly sunk into Peter’s hole, rim flexing and spasming, and all the while Wade ranted on, “You don’t get to breakup with me, and you certainly don’t get to destroy Us, you hear me? I’m in control here, and I won’t let you. You have no choice now but to let me fit us back together, cuz you’re the most important thing in my life, and I’m not letting you go.”

Finally, Wade was fully seated in Peter’s tight, but oh so elastic ass: his favorite place in the world. Peter’s body writhed deliciously underneath his, shifting and agitating around the massive intrusion, as Wade ground from side to side. After a moment’s rest, his hands moved back to Peter’s hips where Wade could better direct the thinner body’s movements: carefully forward onto Deadpool’s fake dick, then slowly back onto Wade’s large cock. “I think you look magnificent when you’re being split open like this, like a work of art. If I could handle the jealousy, I could watch you being sodomized and facefucked by a train of dirty men all day long. Whitey is fantasizing about it right now. Of course, Yellow has a better grasp of our jealousy issues, and he knows that if someone is going to spit roast you with me, then that fucker better also be me.” 

Wade eased them into a steady, cautious pace, and Peter somehow managed to make a hoarse humming sound each time Wade’s cock pushed all the way in. Wade wasn’t even sure the other man was capable of hearing his words anymore, and yet still they spilled unbidden from his lips, “Cuz I’m done fucking sharing. I won’t share you with that sick fuck Doc Ock, or your goddamn depression, or your fucking martyr complex!”

[[Woah, boy! Ease up!]]

Wade checked himself, making sure he wasn’t thrusting too hard and inadvertently choking Peter. He focused on the long inches of his thick dick disappearing completely into the curved crevice of Peter’s phenomenal ass. It was not a sight that did any favors for his possessive urges, prompting him to growl aggressively, “And if you ever tell me again that you’ve left me Captain fucking America’s sloppy seconds, I WILL SPANK YOU. Hard.”

Peter bucked back sharply at the threat, impaling himself so roughly that Wade had to adjust his grip on Peter’s hips, reestablishing the carefully controlled pace of their copulation. They kept at it for long minutes, until Wade’s balls hurt from restraining himself, and he could only imagine how sore Peter’s jaw felt. Finally he stopped his slow drag in and out of Peter’s grasping hole, and leaned forward to grab Peter’s arms where they were still braced around the dummy’s waist. Then he pulled Peter’s torso up and back, so that his back pressed against Wade’s sweatshirt, and the angle of the prick in his ass changed sharply. Finally free of the cock gag, Peter gave a weak, raspy groan that didn’t sound at all like himself. Wade brought his cleaner hand up to Peter’s chin and turned that beloved face towards his shoulder, so Wade could get a better look from behind. Peter’s eyes were hooded and wonderfully dazed, and his lips were, well –

[A fucking masterpiece. All red and swollen, so wet and glistening! Just like his other hole.] 

Wade hooked a couple fingers into that obscene, slutty mouth and fucked harder into the fantastically greedy ass. Peter moaned deliriously, almost constantly, sucking and chewing on Wade’s finger tips even as Wade’s hips hammered cock up his spine. Finally, Wade brought his other hand down to grasp Peter’s prick, thumbing at the slit to gather the generous precum and then rubbing it into the hot, loose skin of the velvety organ. 

“This is mine too,” Wade whispered harshly into Peter’s ear, as he began to stroke his prick in time with the claiming thrusts of his own mighty cock. “It’s all mine. To do whatever I want with, for the rest of your too-short life. You’ll never have to share my time, or attentions, or affections; cuz of all my well used toys and broken keepsakes, you, Peter, are my most prized possession.” 

Peter’s body shuddered at that, and a couple seconds later his back was arching as every muscle tensed and he shot vigorous ropes of cum all over the Deadpool dummy and a little on the ugly couch. “Uuungh-unnngh!”

Peter flopped forward, right onto the mess and the dummy, but Wade moved with him seamlessly, pinning him there so he could continue to fuck into the loose, sated hole with long, measured strokes. Peter gave a weak whimper that only egged Wade on, and he picked up speed, pounding into his baby boy like he was nasty nympho, claiming young Peter Benjamin Parker in the biblical sense, stretching his ass beyond all recognition or ability to erase. A minute later Wade too was spilling his seed, planting it as deep into that pliant body as his huge cock could plow, hoping that it’d take a long time to seep out even as he was swept away by searing waves of pleasure. “Mine! Fuck, Petey! You’re fucking mine!” 

He collapsed heavily onto Peter, both of them kneeling into the couch. As he krept back to his senses and his breathing evened out, Wade licked the nape of Peter’s neck, tasting his salty sweat. Peter’s strong body felt warm and comforting beneath him, and he regretted the usually comforting barrier of clothing that he’d maintained throughout this experience. He straightened, drawing a faint sound of loss from Peter, but not enough to upset the delicate connection of his slick, softening cock resting in Peter’s relaxed cavity; then he deftly stripped off the hoodie so that he could warm Peter’s cooling flesh with his own. His arms reached out to cover Peter’s, lacing his thick fingers through Peter’s slender digits, and they both hummed in contentment. 

Wade drifted briefly in the foreign feeling of happiness, a haze really, until details of reality began to come into focus again. Like the erotic smell of semen and sweat and Peter. Or the feel of Peter’s muscles shifting faintly beneath him, and even fainter than that: Peter’s heart beating right under his, almost in sync but not quite. 

“If we stay like this much longer,” he murmured in Peter’s ear, briefly nibbling on the lobe. “I’m gonna get hard again, right inside your wet, cockwarming slot. You’ll be sensitive, and I’m not small, so. . . it’ll probably hurt.” 

Peter tensed, almost squeezing Wade’s dick out, but Wade just clasped their hands together and held on tight. “Do you want me to pull out? Or do you trust me to control the pain too?”

Peter whimpered and Wade felt his cock stir already, like some unkillable monster. 

[[What an apt metaphor.]]

It took Wade a beat to realize why he received no answer. “You can speak now. I said everything that needed sayin’.”

“I trust you, Wade. Anything.” Peter croaked immediately, voice wrecked from deep throating the black dildo. He shuffled his legs farther apart, pushing back into Wade’s hips, so that the slowly hardening cock nestled back in. Wade straightened again, pressing up against the back of Peter’s ass and thighs, hands appreciating the muscular plains of Peter’s back and shoulders. 

“Anything?” Wade taunted, fingers curling so that he dragged nails lightly down the smooth skin. “I have some pretty perverse fantasies.”

“Anything,” Peter rasped again, spine arching into the rough touch. “Blanket consent. I’m yours, do what you want.”

Those words sent a thrill tingling up Wade’s spine and down every nerve, and his prick had finally swollen enough that he could start gently thrusting in and out of Peter’s loose orifice. The wet sounds of semen and lube squeezing out of Peter’s channel, overlaid with their loud breathing, only turned him on more. 

[My own sloppy seconds are best!]

[[Agreed.]]

“Do you feel raw? I want you to feel raw.” Wade didn’t wait for an answer, impatience driving him to pull out, sucking gasps from both of them. Then he pushed the Deaddoll out of the way so that he could manhandle Peter into a new position: flipped on his back with knees pulled up and out and his ass hung off the couch, exposing a half hard dick and a yawning hole. The rim looked puffy and swollen, so Wade fumbled for the lube packet and squeezed out the remaining gel, smearing it right through Peter’s ineffective guardian ring. Peter groaned loudly at the invasion, body trembling with strain and arousal.

“Fuck! You give us permission to do anything we want, and all we want to do is this,” Wade mourned, two fingers spreading lube through the cum mess now oozing out of Peter’s passage. Moments later, he brought his slippery fingers to his own fully erect cock, coating it with an extra layer of slick before pressing the head to Peter’s rim. Peter clamped his eyes shut as Ol’ Reliable slowly breeched his twitching hole, pulling a high-pitched keen from his lips. 

Wade ignored the sound to make their point, “We want to stake our claim, again and again, until it’s a brand you wear inside you.”

Wade began playing with Peter’s flagging prick, large hands enveloping it completely, massaging the length and caressing the tip. Like magic, Peter’s body jerked and opened a little more for him, and Wade pressed his advantage, pushing as far he could into the abused channel, all the way to the hilt. 

“Oh, shit!” Peter cried out hoarsely, from an equally abused throat.

[Hottest thing EVER!]

“Peter, look at me.” Peter’s dazed eyes opened, only to almost close again when Wade started rocking into him, snapping his hips fast enough to punch Peter’s prostate, in time with each down stroke of his now hard prick. “Does it hurt?” 

“God, Wade, only in the best way. Don’t stop!” Peter pleaded, arms falling open on either side of his body, and Wade found it thrilling to be on the receiving end of those words for once. 

“I will stop, if I have to,” Wade vowed earnestly, meeting Peter’s gaze with an intense stare even as he pistoned in and out of his well-traveled passage. “If it ever goes too far, or hurts too much. I’ve never taken care of my toys, but I’m learning to take care of my pets. Call it personal growth.”

[WAIT! WHAT?! I just threw up a little in my mouth! You tricked us! WE LIKE being out of control!]

[[No, Whitey, you sad, idiotic deviant. YOU like being out of control, cuz a lifetime at the mercy of monsters has taught you that control is an illusion. Better self-control is the only option from here on out, and I will flip to Sims mode if you fight me on this. Peter deserves better, WE deserve better. We can do better.]] 

Wade thought it might be the nicest thing Yellow had ever said about him, about them, and the swell of soul deep happiness was almost uncontainable. As he thrust slowly into Peter’s intimate grip, endorphins flooding through his veins, it was easy to believe he did deserve better; as he watched his beautiful lover come undone below him, he knew could do better. Wade fucked into Peter again and again, chasing the right angle, speed, depth, only to find that Peter seemed unaware of much difference, moaning appreciatively with every thrust. 

[I do adore this soundtrack though!]

Having both just cum, they fucked for what felt like a long time, though Wade couldn’t know for sure. He could’ve kept going forever, it felt so amazing, even without the urgent need to blow his load; but eventually Peter’s body tensed perceptibly, and his eyes squeezed shut, and Wade just knew he was getting lost the growing pain. Carefully pulling out, Wade preempted any complaints by assuring, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just keeping my word.”

Wade shuffled his knees back slightly, just enough that he could bend over and suck down Peter’s now leaking cock, easily slotting three fingers into the raw channel underneath. 

“Oh, fuck me!” Peter cried loudly, voice still wrecked. 

Wade fisted himself with all the violence and vigor that he’d spared Peter, using the fingers impaling that wet hole to guide Peter’s hips as he thrust helplessly down Wade’s throat. Too soon, a frantic, energetic orgasm peeled off from Wade’s his very soul, muscles seizing long and hard in overwhelming pleasure, only to relax suddenly and face planting him in Peter’s lap, half choking on Peter’s cock even as he groaned in aroused aftershock. 

Peter’s hips were stuttering erratically, signaling that his own end was near, so Wade brought his cum-slick free hand to wrap around Peter’s waist, giving him the leverage to really suck that cock all the way down. He loved the musky smell of the skin and hair pressed to his nostrils; he adored the feel of the hard flesh trapped in his throat, and the way his muscles constricted, one by one down the length of his neck, as he carefully swallowed around a dick that was going nowhere. Pulling off is harder, cock dragging in a foreign direction as the body naturally objects, but Wade was good at that to, inhaling sharply before greedily going back for more. He tightened his hold on Peter’s waist and bore down on that wonderful, amazing cock; the wand of pleasure, the shrine of manhood, the fountain of life. He swallowed around it again, and again, like he was guzzling cold water on a hot day, until the first splash of salty semen shot straight down this throat, and then he was actually gulping down Peter’s thick, warm nectar. 

[Mine mine mine, don’t spill a drop!]

Feeding off him like a leech, Peter was sucked dry well before Wade was done, but the older man felt a distinct disinclination to go anywhere. Asphyxiation did strange things to him, but it didn’t actually kill him.

[I wonder how long we could exist like this, like a Human Centipede on Peter’s dick.]

[[That’s horrifying.]]

[And yet kinda hot. Or, better yet, my cock sown into Peter’s hole!]

[[You realize you’re talking about taking a needle to Ol’ Reliable. Even your favorite tool might not work so well after that!]]

Peter released quiet, raspy chuckle, “Jeez, Pool, even you gotta breathe sometimes.”

Wade smiled even as he reluctantly let the soft, wet prick drag up his throat and slip from his drooling lips. Peter was eating him up with his eyes, pulling Wade closer so they could rub their swollen mouths together. After a moment, Peter panted roughly, for the bazillionth time, “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Wade smirked at the predictable line, both pleased and relieved. “Yeah? Better than the last time? Or the first time? Or that time in the Green Goblin’s vault – ”

“We agreed never to talk about that!” Peter laughed, poking Wade in the ribs. “But yes, better than all the other times.”

Wade ran an adoring nose along Peter’s cheek, and sorta half-sung, half-whispered, “♪♬ May we all do a little better than the first time, learn a little something from the worst times, get a little stronger from the hurt times. ♪♬.”

“I actually know this song,” Peter teased affectionately, though also looking a little like he might cry. “Thanks to you, I now listen to the country music stations, at least when I’m sitting around pining over you for months.”

“Then finish it,” Wade urged eagerly, still splayed top of the other man, faces inches apart, and too close to deny.

Peter frowned briefly in concentration, then managed to find enough rusty voice to massacre the end of the song, “♪♬ May we all get to have a chance to ride the fast one, walk away wiser when we crashed one, keep hoping that the best one is the last one. ♪♬” 

Then Peter reached up to lay a palm of Wade’s jaw, gently stroking a scarred cheek. Wade turned into the gentle touch, meeting Peter’s piercing eyes, and continued their coded conversation with a line from earlier in the song, “♪♬ Nothing’s cool til you wear the new off. ♪♬”

Peter’s lips met his briefly, but firmly. “Come on, let’s move this slumber party to the bedroom. We can relive our early days squeezing into a single.”

! ~_~ !

“So, uh, Aunt May agreed to wait til your next visit to have you over, but we do have one social obligation this evening,” Peter pointed out late the next morning, as he lay on his stomach next to Wade’s naked, filthy body. “Just in case you were planning on spending all day in my ass.”

[[Fair question, since we sodomized him twice last night. Then again this morning. And he doesn’t even know your plans to cork his cum filled hole with the butt plug. He’ll never agree, bee tee dubs.]]

[We didn’t spend the ENTIRE time in his ass! Don’t forget sliding in and out his still-hoarse throat first thing this morning!]

“Lemme guess,” Wade mused contentedly, one hand brushing the wet and dry semen smeared all over his stomach, the other hand resting possessively on Peter’s small, firm buttocks. He was only human, so sometimes a digit or two slipped down to finger the warm, messy hole. “Barton has some harebrained, cockblocking, bleeding heart scheme to make us all be friends.”

“Got it in one. Except Sam and Stark are in on it too. In fact, at this point, I’m pretty sure the entire team is involved.”

“Even you?” Wade inquired, pulsing lightly at Peter’s soft rim. It was pretty hard to believe that the Avengers actually wanted to include him in anything.

“Hmmm,” Peter hummed happily, the mouth of his hole flexing open to taste Wade’s finger tips. “I’m just an auxiliary member of the team. But I did agree to get you to the Tower tonight.”

[[Great. The last place I wanted to spend more time.]]

“Well, that narrows down the possibilities. To, like, an Avengers firing squad in the super-secret shooting range they’ve never let me see.”

“No quite,” Peter chuckled, and Wade forced himself to stop molesting his young lover, banishing his fingers to the soft skin where Peter’s lovely bubble butt curved under. Of course, after a few seconds there, and his entire hand starts squeezing, lightly but rhythmically. Peter barely reacted to the different fondling, seemingly relaxed and comfortable in Wade’s hands and sights. “They’re throwing you a homecoming party, doofus. Clint’s not the only one that calls you a friend.” 

[[Bullshit. Smells like a setup.]]

[Yeah, remember that movie Carrie?]

Wade withdrew his hand, suddenly uncertain, then a moment later he sat up and dropped his legs off the bed. Glancing down at himself, the cum he’d been brushing through on his abs now looked disgusting on his disfigured skin. As great as he felt in Peter’s arms and inside his very body, outside the bedroom judgement was constant and severe. The idea of a party in his honor was ludicrous, and was obviously some kind of trap, which begged the question, “What do you get out of it?”

[[♪♬ Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear, I sentenced you to be exposed before your peers! ♪♬]]

“What do you mean?” The bed shifted as Peter crawled over to sit behind Wade, straddling his hips and hugging his ribs, chin resting on a broad shoulder. “Clint and Sam thought a party might make you feel more welcome, more likely to move back. I just thought you’d have fun, cuz it’s a party. You liked Karaoke night.”

Wade hesitated indecisively, before reluctantly agreeing, “Yeah, okay,” 

[“Tear down the wall! Tear down the wall!”]

Only his concession ignited a small flare of panic, making Wade feel tense and trapped, all of which inevitably triggered the verbal diarrhea, “As long as people don’t have any weird expectations. I’m not gonna, like, publicly apologize and commit hari kari or anything. . . No grateful ass kissing either, fuck you very much. I’d definitely rather commit hari kari than that. Also, if they expect to be entertained for any length of time, then I must insist on a friendly audience, or I may be driven to commit ritual murder on ALL their asses!”

Peter kissed his neck, soothing a hand down Wade’s shoulder. “It won’t be that bad. There’ll be a lot of food, definitely. Maybe some dancing, if you wanted to show off your moves. And yeah, you’ll probably have to talk to some of YOUR FRIENDS, but at this point you’d have to try pretty hard to screw anything up.”

Wade was still wary, but Peter had actually made a very convincing argument, tailor-made to fit Wade perfectly, so he also felt a little less anxious. He turned his head over his shoulder, so he could gently bump foreheads with Peter. “Oh yeah? The Avengers are my friends now?” 

[Um, uh. . . squee? Sorry. Being friends with the Avengers was, like, a bazillion times cooler before we got to know them.]

Peter smirked. “Only the second tier ones.”

[[They’re all assholes, even the ones we like.]]

“Ooo, bitchy!” Wade complemented, managing a smile. 

[So what you’re saying is that we fit in?]

“But I’m not gonna make it til tonight, I need to eat now. I’m suffering from rapid onset starvation.”

Peter laughed and climbed off the bed. “I hear you. There’s stuff for eggs and bacon if you wanna cook, but I gotta shower first.”

Wade watched that perfect ass walk away from him, cheeks and thighs glistening a little with cum and lube. He knew he was welcome to follow, to help clean all of Peter’s hard to reach spots, even if he rarely took him up on it. Wade was tempted, but knew that he wouldn’t this time either. In the lead up to this so-called party, he would have to put on more and more layers, not strip them off. So he threw on yesterday’s clothes (definitely dirty from being worn while spit roasting Peter between his cock and the dildo) and made large amounts of eggs and bacon, occasionally stuffing a hot strip in his mouth. 

After a witty brunch with almost as sexy clean!Peter, Wade went for his own shower. When he stood under the water long enough, he found that his scars and growths softened, allowing a rough scrubbing to accomplish significant exfoliation. It hurt a little, but his skin always hurt, so Wade barely noticed and certainly didn’t care; what he did like was that his deformities then felt smoother and looked less ragged. He was unclear whether Peter had ever noticed, but it helped his confidence after Peter had stopped politely ignoring them while they were fucking or being otherwise intimate. He wanted to be more attractive, for Peter’s sake and his own benefit, even as every effort reminded him of just how much old wounds still hurt.

An indefinite length of time later, Wade got out of the shower, scolded himself for forgetting the baby oil at home, and then dressed in black jeans that couldn’t help but hug his thick thighs, and a red, formfitting turtle neck that perfectly matched the hue of his soft mask. 

[[We look like a cartoon character, but at least we’re a hot one.]]

[Yeah, like Jessica Rabbit.] 

“Totally Jessica Fucking Rabbit,” Deadpool affirmed to the reflection above the bathroom sink. With a nod to himself, he left the bathroom ready for whatever the future held. 

! ^_^ !

First Peter dragged Deadpool around Battery Park with his backpack and camera. He took his own artsy farsty pictures of the landscape, which Pool mocked mercilessly until Peter turned the camera on him. Fully covered, from his hood to the thin black gloves covering his hands, he had no problem modeling his physique in increasingly unlikely positions. This eventually led to posing with mostly Chinese tourists wearing poofy coats, who paid in kind by taking ridiculously smoochy pictures of Peter and Pool. 

After the sun set, Peter dragged Deadpool to a fantastically violent movie, where he helped the older man release his growing tension with a dirty, backrow blowjob. It was slow and lazy, with lots of wet tongue work but no effort to swallow all of him or speed things up, Wade’s loose fingers in his hair as he bobbed up and down to a gradual rhythm. It eventually ended with Wade muffling a hearty groan into his forearm, and then Peter licking clean all the evidence. It sorta felt like old times. 

A few blocks later, they were vaguely at the right place at the right time. The doormen at Stark Tower gestured them to the private elevator. 

“Hey Jar-Jar,” Deadpool greeted cheekily, with an undeniably manic undercurrent. 

“Greetings, Sir Deadpool.” 

[He missed us, I can tell.]

[[I certainly missed another voice of reason.]]

The elevator started moving, the second-highest floor number lit up on the screen. “Uuuh, I’m pretty sure Stark expressly forbid me from entering his lair during his whole Mi Casa, Mi Fucking Rules speech.”

Peter smirked silently at him, leaving Jarvis to reply, “Rest assured that you are specifically invited tonight.”

Those words were as thrilling as they were terrifying. A second later the elevator door opened, releasing Peter and Pool to a corridor echoing with pop music. This hallway ended at a staircase descending into a party room occupied by a ballpark fifty people and swamp of mood lighting. Peter grabbed his hand in anticipation of something –

“SURPRISE!” Then a net released a sea of red and black balloons, followed by streamers and glitter that reflected the strobe lights but that would soon get everywhere. With so many potential targets, Deapool’s fingers inched for guns and swords that Peter had forced him to leave at home, and it was an effort not to react by bouncing off the walls. From his vantage point atop the stairs, he had a good view of potential threats, but also had everyone’s eyes. A huge banner hung on the far side of the room, reading ‘WELCOME HOME DP!’ 

“Our guest of honor, Deeeadpooooool!” Stark announced through the sound system, sounding like a Mexican sports caster reporting a gooooooal. 

The guests clapped and cheered, some quite loudly, so Pool gave in to the urge to go along with the farce. He executed a high, flamboyant wave and twirled around dramatically. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out!”

Peter grabbed his elbow and led him down the stairs as Deadpool continued to flap his arm like a beauty queen. He didn’t even try to focus on any faces, treating the crowd as a single unit so that he didn’t have to deal with the fact it was composed of an array of intimidating individuals whose approval he vaguely wanted. Thor was hard to miss with his royal regalia, but it was easier to gloss over the remaining sea of chiseled jaws and casually dressed muscles; and hot chicks of course. So it was kinda surprising when he got to the bottom of the stairs and was met by –

“Dad!” Ellie barreled into Pool’s chest, wrapping her skinny, tweenage arms around him in a spastic hug. He forced himself to hold still as a bolt of fear shot threw him, despite Agent Preston’s sharp-eyed presence only a few feet away.

[[That fucker Stark invited my kid to a party populated by ALL the City’s trouble magnets! As though this evening isn’t destined to end in some kinda bizarre, superpowered violence!]]

“Smelly Ellie!” Pool responded with enthusiasm, suffocating his concern and anger back so that he could give his daughter a proper greeting, hugging her and spinning her around so that she screamed in excitement. 

“Don’t call me that!” she squealed, fighting off his noogie and kicking off a manic rant. “This is the coolest thing ever! I can’t believe the Avengers threw you a party! I gotta get some pictures, or else no one’ll believe me! You said you were friends with Spiderman, but you’ve never mentioned THOR! He’s the sexiest superhero, all my friends agree! Will you introduce me? Please please please!”

[Gouge my eyes out right now! THIS IS HORRIFYING!]

All Pool could do was stare at his progeny, mouth agape under his mask, as Peter laughed at him. “My God, she sounds just like you! I can’t think of anything more fitting!” 

“He’s absurdly friendly and likes kids in a genuinely not-pervy way, so you could just go talk to him. If I introduce you, but I guarantee he’ll wanna drop trou and compare epic journeys,” Pool warned. As she frowned in thought, he faintly recognized the expression. It was hard to imagine having ever been that adorable or innocent, having never really felt either way, but he remembered seeing a similar face in the mirror once. He would spend the rest of his days making sure that his life and future were not hers, protecting her and wishing for nothing more than her happiness. 

“She’s nothing like me,” Deadpool assured soberly to Peter. “Can’t you see she’s beautiful?”

Ellie smirked at the younger man. "Who are you?”

“My name’s Peter,” he said, leaving the rest for Pool. “And your father’s right, you’re gorgeous.”

“Peter here’s my boy toy,” Deadpool claimed proudly, causing his boyfriend to whack his arm. 

“But you said. . .” Ellie’s eyes narrowed only briefly [[Oh shit!]] before she exclaimed, “You’re Spiderman!”

“What?!” Aunt May cried in dramatic outrage, from where she had apparently just joined them. 

For a moment Peter’s eyes grew wide with terror and his mouth gaped open as he sputtered out a few unattractive syllables that failed to actually form words.

“Gotcha! I already knew,” Aunt May joked in a sudden turn around, flashing a warm smile at the trio.

“Good one!” Deadpool admired, offering the old woman a high five.

May gave his palm dignified slap, but then her expression softened with concern as Peter continued to stare at her with an expression of absolute horror. “Come on, Peter, it’s not that bad. I’ve known almost a year. After you introduced me to Wade, I used the Google to look him up. Let’s just say that there are some interesting theories, and pictures, about Deadpool and Spiderman.”

“Haha! Genius college boy got Google-fued by his Aunt!” Pool crowed obnoxiously.

“I’ve seen those sites too,” Ellie smarted off, but Deadpool just chicken-necked back at her, barely caring. He’d rather she read ridiculous speculation about in his relationship with Spiderman, rumors of which had circled the net a few times in the last year, than dig up anything older or uglier. 

Peter made an effort to close his mouth and compose himself, clearing his throat before he ventured, “You’re not mad?”

May reached out and took Peter’s hand. “Of course not, dear. Worried? Definitely. Afraid for you? Yes. But not mad. Perhaps a little hurt that you didn’t tell me, but not surprised that you are drawn to that life.”

Then she pulled him in for a hug, and Peter’s voice was thick with relief, “Thanks, Aunt May.”

“Hey, I love you. But I still expect the full story next time you come over.”

“Of course,” he assured as he pulled back.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m dying to meet Thor.” The fabulous May raised an eyebrow at Ellie. “Any chance you’ll be my wingwoman?”

“Yes yes yes!” Ellie squealed, grabbing her arm to either help her walk (which she did not need) or pull her over.

“It’s good to have you back, Wade,” the old lady said as she gravitated away. “We missed you, and I missed how happy Peter seemed when he was with you.”

[Well, he was being ass fucked on the regular, which is clearly important to his wellbeing.]

[[We’re not going to say that to his aunt.]]

“Thanks, Miz May.”

Clearly waiting for an opening, Clint and Sam stepped up next, then guided them to the bar for a round of beer, which Deadpool declined in favor of keeping his mask down. Still, as his eyes tracked over to the buffet, he knew that his willpower would only last so long. 

Once the others had glasses, Clint threw a bare, muscular arm over Pool’s shoulders and teased, “I had no idea you knew this many people who didn’t want you dead!”

Looking around, the vast majority of people milling about were Avengers (all accounted for), affiliates (such as Wolverine, Kate Bishop, and James Rhodes), significant others (such as Jane Foster and Pepper Potts), or some form of Stark employee (including Happy Hogan and Dr. Najela Wakka). 

[[It’s probably a good thing that they have someone on hand actually trained in crisis intervention. Still –]]

Twitch, twitch. Twitch.

“‘This ain’t a scene, it’s a god damn arms race,’” Deadpool muttered with all the cadence of a Fall Out Boy. Was that Blind Al over there by Thor? 

[What is it with that guy? She can’t even see his wild male beauty!]

“I can’t argue with you there,” Clint agreed contentedly, looking out at the respectably sized gathering. “With this many heavy hitters in the same room, it’s basically tempting Fate. I have money riding on a supervillain crashing the party tonight. Pissed off anyone lately?” 

“Almost everyday, but no one who’d dare crash THIS party. You shoulda gone with invasion of some sort. It’s always an invasion in this City. You’d know that if you lived somewhere that, you know, never got invaded.” 

“Pshaw, like Toronto?” Clint challenged immediately, letting his sexy arm drop from Pool’s shoulders and pivoting to look at him more directly.

“Amongst most other places,” Pool answered warily.

“But Peter’s not in Toronto.”

“Believe me, I’ve noticed.” 

“And neither is your daughter,” Clint continued, as if he was laying it all out for a complete idiot. “Or Sam and Bucky and me.”

Pool squirmed a little, feeling the vaguely excited stress of the party and the unhappy stress of the topic combine in a semi-manic cocktail. Sims-mode would’ve been much more comfortable, but, alas, was not part of Yellow’s current mental health regimen.

[[You know the rule: No altered states unless absolutely necessary. Now handle this.]] 

“Look, dude. Clint. I get it, everything you just said, which is why I’ll eventually end up moving back. Of course I will, cuz, come on, where else do freaks like me belong but New York City? But I’m just not ready yet, okay? All this,” he waved his fingers around energetically, “is a fucking lot to take in. Sometimes, the idea of me finding love is still so absurd that I’m half certain that Peter is a figment of my imagination, and I wonder if I’m going crazy again. Crazi-errr, anyway. . . So the idea of friends? Well that’s one I’m still working on, cuz I’ve had both imaginary friends and imagined friendships. ♪♬ It’s fucked up when your mind is playin’ tricks on you ♪♬. And even if I can believe and accept having real friends, I’ll still grapple to meet the obligations of having friends. Which is just one reason I’m taking my time easing back into this whole scene. Peter and I are doing it right this time, one step at a time, so we can, you know, take care of our mental health and of each other.”

The last words were grumbled rather quietly, and Clint studied his masked face for long seconds. Then he gave a decisive nod, seemingly happy with Pool’s answer. “As long as it’s only a matter of time. You wouldn’t want to trust Peter’s safety to someone else for too long.”

Eager and ready to shift gears, Pool complained, “Now that was just mean.”

After that their conversation merged back with Sam and Peter’s, and a few minutes later they were joined by Natasha Romanoff. The middle of the floor had cleared somewhat and a few brave souls were actually attempting to move to the beat. 

“Care for a dance?” Romanoff challenged Deadpool, hip and eye cocked, looking every bit like she was daring him to spar, despite the dainty slip of a dress she was wearing. 

Deadpool’s head jerked towards Peter. “Am I allowed that close to those magnificent ta tas?”

“You’re won’t be getting all that close,” Romanoff replied for him, grabbing Deadpool’s gloved hand and pulling him away from the group. 

[Wanna bet?]

“I’ve got some wicked moves, Hot Lips,” Pool warned as she positioned them on the dance floor. “But I ain’t exactly classically trained.”

“I know what I’m working with,” Romanoff dismissed, placing one large hand on her dainty waist and holding the other in her own. “Now follow my lead so no one gets hurt.”

Almost certainly on her cue, a Salsa beat started up, and the Black Widow promptly started dragging Deadpool around the floor. The first thirty seconds were clutzy and uncoordinated, as Deadpool struggled to pick up the rhythm and pattern of movement, but he learned quickly, and the third time he stepped on Romanoff’s foot it was intentional. To which she responded by propping a sexy knee up on his hip, and using the opposite hand to grab his ear through the hood. 

“Now give us a good spin before I rip your ear off!”

“[Yes, ma’am!]”

After that, they both amped things up. Romanoff took Pool on a tour of the dance floor, whipping out every flashy move ever and directing her partner exquisitely with subtle pressure and the occasional word. Deadpool, once he was comfortable enough to react naturally, mirrored the deadly assassin almost perfectly, displaying all the phenomenal physical control, strength, and grace that he typically brought to a throw down. He lifted her and then swung her around; slid her between his legs before pulling her back up and tossing her into the air again; caught her again, twisted, and then dipped her low; all the while roughly maintaining the rhythm and footwork to loosely qualify as Salsa. 

Their athletic performance ended to applause, to which Deadpool bowed low even as a Romanoff threatened vaguely, “Next time you come to the Tower, you’re gonna learn to Tango.”

“That sounds hot,” Pool parroted in his best Paris Hilton impression, squaring up as a slow song started up.

But then Peter was there, asking Romanoff, “May I cut in?”

“Certainly,” Romanoff conceded graciously, flashing a coquettish smirk as she turned away.

Deadpool’s eyes were tempted to track her voluptuous ass as she departed, but instead he eyed his boyfriend skeptically. Peter had never shown any interest in dancing, and had steadfastly refused Pool’s offers to teach him to breakdance. Given how musically retarded he was, Pool kinda doubted the poor boy was even capable of moving to a beat, however pert his ass. “I hope you’re not expecting me to throw you around the dance floor like I just did with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. She orchestrated most of that.”

“Oh, I barely survived prom, and that was after the spider bite,” Peter admitted good naturedly, draping his arms over Pool’s shoulders, easing them into the rhythm of the music. “I’m just hoping to stand in front of you and slowly turn in a circle without falling down.”

Deadpool rested his hands on Peter’s hips, savoring the feel of taunt muscle as his mind dove towards publicly inappropriate thoughts. “You look sexy, all dressed up like this. I can’t wait to get you alone and strip you naked.”

Peter pressed himself up against Pool, and as always he was shocked and thrilled by how sensitive he was his civvies. As much as his leather combat suit would’ve protected him from everyone’s stares, it would’ve also cocooned him from the swell of Peter’s pecs, or the press of groin, or the sweltering heat of his fit body against Pool’s. “You totally pulled a Dirty Dancing out there with Natasha. I was jealous as Hell.” 

[Duh. We’re basically Patrick Swayze.]

[[Rest in peace, brah.]]

Pool pressed back, getting as close as he could while fully dressed. “I’d kiss you if it wouldn’t freak out the kids.”

“I don’t think anyone is looking at us,” Peter murmured softly into the tiny space between their lips, nodding his head to his right. A quick glance revealed Sam and Natasha were tearing up the dancefloor, slow music no hindrance to their scorching moves. Pool felt fingertips skirting under his hood. “May I?” 

[May you claim us in front of everyone like the wild stallion that you’ve broken with your powers of seduction? Um, yes please!]

Deadpool nodded helplessly. His adrenaline spiked as Peter reached for his mask, only to ease somewhat when the cloth was folded neatly over his nose. And then his loud, manic anxiety was downed by the smothering warmth of Peter’s tongue wetting his lips, insisting on an intimate connection, even here in front of their friends and family. Long, passionate seconds tasting each other forced Deadpool to draw away, “Anymore of that and I won’t be decent. . . Which is just another advantage of my suit.” 

“Right. A major advantage,” Peter snarked, long fingers suddenly grabbing a large handful of Pool’s ass. 

“Holy fuck!” Deadpool exclaimed, leaping backwards in a surprised sprawl of flailing limbs.

Peter laughed heartily at him, even as spidery fingers darted out to grab Pool’s and draw him close again. “I owed you that one, but that doesn’t make it right. I love you.” Then he apologized earnestly. “I’m sorry if I ever take advantage of that, or of your feelings for me.” 

[[Um, what?]]

“Petey-pie, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Pool professed easily as they started moving again to the music. “Hands down. Your worst is still so much better than what I’ve done to myself.” 

Peter gave a lopsided smile, stroking a hand along Pool’s shoulder until it rested at the junction of his strong neck. “That doesn’t make it right. I shouldn’t’ve let them throw this party to pressure you to move back. I didn’t realize how stressed you were until I saw you unwind on the dancefloor. Your entire body moves differently when you’re not being self-conscious.”

Deadpool just pulled down his mask and tightened his embrace on Peter, so that they swayed together as one. It was about as safe as he could feel in the current environment, allowing him to admit shyly, “I didn’t want you to. . . I’m coping much better these days. So I should be able to take on more, right?”

Peter returned the almost bruising hug, briefly kissing Spandex skin before resting their cheeks against each other, and that was how they stayed. Peter was even tolerant enough to let Pool rest his fingertips, respectfully high, on the swell of that pert ass, which Pool barely managed to avoid groping for the duration of the song.

“Is it time to buffet yet?” Pool asked as the music faded out, failing to keep the whine out of his tone. 

“I’m just trying to be polite,” Peter countered. “It’s uncouth to beeline for the food.”

“Even if it’s your party and you’re a notorious glutton?”

Peter chuckled at his bald honesty, and Deadpool used the opportunity to drag him over to the food tables. On the dancefloor, Natasha was now taking Bucky out for a spin, and their performance put the previous two to shame. The precision of his moves suggested not just intensive training, but a fundamental familiarity with his partner. Pool was tempted to watch, but not as tempted as he was to eat. He and Peter loaded up two full plates each, as well as individual drinks held precariously in their elbows, and found the least conspicuous table in deference to Pool’s easting preferences. Once situated, he folded the mask back over his nose and they both tore into the food. 

[Stark does the best spreads. He really understands the quantities involved, while never skimping on quality!]

They were mostly left alone to eat, though Blind Al did come by to bitch at Deadpool for a couple minutes. A real opening didn’t come until they had polished off round one and Peter left for the little girl’s room. Pool’d just resolved to go back for more fried calamari when he tracked Bucky’s approach, looking as serious and deadly as ever. Deadpool pulled down and adjusted his hood.

“The Winter Soldier used to wear a facemask,” Barnes commented darkly as he slid into Peter’s vacated chair. “When no one sees you, it’s easier to let yourself become less than human. A monster, a machine, whatever it takes to survive.”

[[Surprise, surprise! Of all the characters in this room, it is the formerly-brainwashed, amnesiac superkiller that understands us best.]]

Deadpool prevaricated with, “Some of us look less human under our masks than others. Unfortunately for us all, the face under mine is actually monstrous, not just a metaphorically.”

Eying him speculatively, Barnes asked bluntly, “Can I see?”

[Fuck no!]

Pool’s entire body tensed at the question, and he had to question defensively, “Why? I’m sure Jarvis or Rogers will show you a picture, if you ask.” 

“I’m not interested in your appearance, but reading you as a person. Dr. Wakka has assigned me the task of identifying five people in my life that qualify as friends. I’d like to consider you a friend, since so far I have only identified Steve, Natasha, and Sam. But you are difficult to read behind your mask, and without seeing your face, without looking into your eyes, I can’t fully know you or trust you.”

[[Holy menopausal hormones, Batman! Maybe we should’ve tried therapy, that assignment sounds right up our alley. We got Peter, Clint, and, uh, if we play this right, Bucky Barnes.]]

The entire situation filled Deadpool with an odd swirl of emotions, fearful and yet hopeful, stressed and yet excited. Again, he instinctively leaned towards Sims-mode, only for Yellow to redirect him. 

[[It’s dark, and most people aren’t looking. Except Cap over there, he’s definitely watching. Still. We can do this.]]

Girding himself, and with minimal flare, Wade pulled off his mask. Then waited for the inevitable judgment.

Bucky’s eyes briefly scanned his face, but only when he met Wade’s gaze did he begin a more thorough assessment. Piercing pupils bore into him, searching for something, and laying him bare to find it. He felt as naked and vulnerable as he did before Peter, though it was not as comforting or arousing. Still, it wasn’t too hard not to cower in shame and self-loathing, and that was definite improvement. 

Finally, Bucky nodded solemnly and averted his gaze, metal fingertips brushing lightly acrosss the table top. “Thank you, friend. I know it’s not easy to shed the masks we live behind.” 

“Whadja see with your thousand yard stare?” Wade asked jokingly, forcing himself not to slip his mask back on a-sap. He wanted to, but like holding this breath, it was also interesting to seeing how long he could go for.

“A human being, like me,” Bucky answered earnestly, “mutilated by years of torture and abuse.” 

[Excuse me! RUDE!]

Aaand apparently he couldn’t hold on for very long, cuz then Deadpool stuffed himself back into his hood. “Yeah, torture and abuse were basically written into my immortality clause.” 

“But I have Steve and you have Peter. That gives me hope for us. That we're not irreparably broken."

The relief of covering himself, and the agreeable direction of Bucky’s words, had Wade smiling under his mask. It wasn't hard to see the parallels and similarities between himself and Bucky. “Yeah, me too.”

A couple minutes later, Peter came back with a beer, accompanied by Clint, Sam, and Steve, and they all sat around joking and talking shit for a while. Stark and Potts eventually joined the group. As it got later, Deadpool danced with Ellie and then said good-night to her and Agent Preston. 

Not fifteen minutes after their departure, the predictable crisis happened. Deadpool was in the middle of an argument with Wolverine when a dozen phones and other devices all started going off at once. He dumped his frienemy to go find Peter and. . . sure enough, The Wrecking Crew were ripping up Brooklyn.

[Sounds like the perfect ending to any party of mine! Let’s go kick some ass!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is basically the end, as the epilogue is very short and just ties up the one obvious thread.


	6. Epilogue

Six weeks later, Peter was visiting Wade when the inevitable gang of Cyclops gorillas ran rampant through Toronto, completely demolishing his apartment and doing significant damage to the neighborhood. Turns out, Deadpool’s last charity job had some unexpected connections to some bizarre places. It was the first invasion the city had ever seen.

“Fuck this shit!” Deadpool ranted and raved on the scorch marked street outside of the wreckage of his apartment. “I concede, Spidey! You got me, Marvel gods! You win, readers! Who-the-fuck-ever! I’mma just take my supernaturally bad luck back to the Hellmouth where it belongs. Ready or not, New York Shitty, here we come!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all folks! Thanks to all of you that have stuck with me through this series, extra thanks to those have reviewed. Shout out to thank_god_im_pretty for analyzing and living the characters as much as I have! 
> 
> The last year has been the most prolific of my life, as I have written almost a quarter of a million words for these four fics. Alas, I think I am done with Spideypool, and am interested in tackling a new fandom, or possibly an original fic, for my next project. If there is an interest, I do have an old (completed) Gundam Wing story that I can easily share.
> 
> PLEASE REVIEW ON YOUR WAY OUT!


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